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PRESENTED  BY 

,Mr.    H.    H.    Kil iani 


«»^l\  I 


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H.    DE    BALZAC 


THE    COMEDIE    HUMAINE 


WHEN     VERONiaUE    WAS    LEARNING    TO    WALK,    HER    FATHER 
SQUATTED    ON    HIS    HEELS    FOUR    PACES    AWAY. 


H.    DE     BALZAC 


THE 

Country  Parson 

(Le  Cure  de  Village) 

AND 

Albert  Savaron 

(De  Savarus) 

TBANSLATKD    BY 

ELLEN    MARRIAGE 

AND 

CLARA  BELL 

WITH  A  PREFACE  BY 

GEORGE    SAINTSBURY 

PHILADELPHIA 

The  Gebbie  Publishing  Co.,  Ltd. 
1897 


CONTENTS. 


PREFACE ix 

THE    COUNTRY  PARSON— 

I.   VtRONIQUE I 

II.  TASCHERON 52 

III.  THE   CURfe   OF   MONTfeGNAC 82 

IV.  MADAME  GRASLIN  AT  MONTfeONAC I36 

V.  VfeRONIQUE   LAID   IN   THE  TOMB 242 

ALBERT  SAVA RON  {De  Savarus) 285 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

WHEN     VfeRONIQUE     WAS      LEARNING     TO     WALK,     HER      FATHER 

SQUATTED  ON  HIS  HEELS  FOUR  PACES  AWAY  .         Frontispiece 

FAGB 

"DO  YOU  WANT  MONEY  FOR   SOME  OF  YOUR  POOR  PEOPLE?"       .        50 

"  AH  !    SAVE   HIS  SOUL   AT   LEAST !  "         .  .  .    '       .  .      I07 

FARRABESCHE   LED  THE  WAY,   AND  VfeRONIQUE  FOLLOWED  .         I74 

"  SHE  IS  ONE  OF  THOSE  WOMEN  WHO  ARE  BORN  TO  REIGN  !  "      .      392 
Drawn  by  D.  Murray-Smith. 


PREFACE. 

Perhaps  in  no  instance  of  Balzac's  work  is  his  singular 
fancy  for  pulling  that  work  about  more  remarkably  instanced 
and  illustrated  than  in  the  case  of  "  The  Country  Parson." 
The  double  date,  183 7-1 845,  which  the  author  attached  to  it, 
in  his  usual  conscientious  manner,  to  indicate  these  revisions, 
has  a  greater  signification  than  almost  anywhere  else.  When 
the  book,  or  rather  its  constituent  parts,  first  appeared  in  the 
Presse  for  1839,  having  been  written  the  winter  before,  not 
only  was  it  very  different  in  detail,  but  the  order  of  the  parts 
was  altogether  dissimilar.  Balzac  here  carried  out  his  favorite 
plan — a  plan  followed  by  many  other  authors  no  doubt,  but 
always,  as  it  seems  to  me,  of  questionable  wisdom — that  of 
beginning  in  the  middle  and  then  '"'throwing  back"  with  a 
long  retrospective  and  explanatory  digression. 

In  this  version  the  story  of  Ta^cheron's  crime  and  its  pun- 
ishment came  first ;  and  it  was  not  till  after  the  execution 
that  the  early  history  of  Veronique  (who  gave  her  name  to 
this  part  as  to  a  "  Suite  du  Cure  de  Village  ")  was  introduced. 
This  history  ceased  at  the  crisis  of  her  life  ;  and  when  it  was 
taken  up  in  a  third  part,  called  ' '  Veronique  au  Tombeau, ' '  only 
the  present  conclusion  of  the  book,  with  her  confession,  was 
given.  The  long  account  of  her  sojourn  at  Montegnac,  of  her 
labors  there,  of  the  episode  of  Farrabesche,  and  so  forth,  did 
not  appear  till  1841,  when  the  whole  book,  with  the  in- 
versions and  insertions  just  indicated,  appeared  in  such  a 
changed  form  that  even  the  indefatigable  M.  de  Lovenjoul 
dismisses  as  "impossible"  the  idea  of  exhibiting  a  complete 
picture  of  the  various  changes  made.  Nor  was  the  author 
even  yet  contented;  for  in  1845,  before  establishing  it  in  its 

(ix) 


X  PREFACE. 

place  in  the  "  Com6die,"  he  not  only,  as  was  his  wont,  took  out 
the  chapter-headings,  leaving  five  divisions  only,  but  intro- 
duced other  alterations,  resulting  in  the  present  condition  of 
the  book. 

As  the  book  stands  it  may  be  said  to  consist  of  three  parts 
united  rather  by  identity  of  the  personages  who  act  in  them 
than  by  exact  dramatic  connection.  There  is,  to  take  the 
title-part  first  (though  it  is  by  no  means  the  most  really  impor- 
tant or  pervading)  the  picture  of  "The  Country  Parson," 
which  is  almost  an  exact,  and  beyond  doubt  a  designed,  pen- 
dant, to  that  of  "The  Country  Doctor."  The  Abbe  Bonnet 
indeed  is  not  able  to  carry  out  economic  ameliorations,  as 
Dr.  Benassis  is,  personally,  but  by  inducing  Veronique  to  do 
so  he  brings  about  the  same  result,  and  on  an  even  larger 
scale.  His  personal  action  (with  the  necessary  changes  for 
his  profession)  is  also  tolerably  identical,  and  on  the  whole 
the  two  portraits  may  fairly  be  hung  together  as  Balzac's  ideal 
representations  of  the  good  man  in  soul-curing  and  body-cur- 
ing respectively.  Both  are  largely  conditioned  by  his  eigh- 
teenth century  fancy  for  "playing  Providence,"  and  by  his 
delight  in  extensive  financial-commercial  schemes.  But  the 
beauty  of  the  portraiture  of  the  "  Cure  "  is  nearly,  if  not  quite 
equal,  to  that  of  the  doctor,  though  the  institution  of  celibacy 
has  prevented  Balzac  from  giving  a  key  to  the  conduct  of 
Bonnet  quite  as  sufficient  as  that  which  he  furnished  for  the 
conduct  of  Benassis. 

The  second  part  of  the  book  is  the  crime — episodic  as  re- 
gards the  criminal,  cardinal  as  regards  other  points — of  Tas- 
cheron.  Balzac  was  very  fond  of  "his  crimes;"  and  it  is 
quite  worth  while  in  connection  with  his  handling  of  the  mur- 
der here  to  study  the  curious  story  of  his  actual  interference 
in  the  famous  Peytel  case,  which  also  interested  Thackeray  so 
much  in  his  Paris  days.  The  Tascheron  case  itself  (which 
from  a  note  appears  to  have  been  partly  suggested  by  some 
actual  affair)  no  doubt  has  interests  for  those  who  like  such 


PREFACE.  xi 

things,  and  the  picture  of  the  criminal  in  prison  is  very  strik- 
ing. But  we  see  and  know  so  very  little  of  Tascheron  him- 
self, and  even  to  the  very  last  (which  is  long  afterwards)  we 
are  left  so  much  in  the  dark  as  to  his  love  for  Veronique, 
that  the  thing  has  an  extraneous  air.  It  is  like  a  short  story 
foisted  in. 

This  objection  connects  itself  at  once  with  a  similar  one  to 
the  delineation  of  Veronique.  There  is  nothing  in  her  con- 
duct intrinsically  impossible,  or  even  improbable.  A  girl  of 
her  temperament,  at  once,  as  often  happens,  strongly  sensual 
and  strongly  devotional,  deprived  of  her  good  looks  by  illness, 
thrown  into  the  arms  of  a  husband  physically  repulsive,  and 
after  a  short  time  not  troubling  himself  to  be  amiable  in  any 
other  way,  might  very  well  take  refuge  in  the  substantial,  if 
not  ennobling,  consolations  offered  by  a  good-looking  and 
amiable  young  fellow  of  the  lower  class.  Her  conduct  at  the 
time  of  the  crime  (her  exact  complicity  in  which  is,  as  we 
have  said,  rather  imperfectly  indicated)  is  also  fairly  prob- 
able, and  to  her  repentance  and  amendment  of  life  no  excep- 
tion can  be  taken.  But  only  in  this  last  stage  do  we  really 
see  anything  of  the  inside  of  V6ronique's  nature;  and  even 
then  we  do  not  see  it  completely.  The  author's  silence  on 
the  details  of  the  actual  liaison  with  Tascheron  has  its  advan- 
tages, but  it  also  has  its  defects. 

Still,  the  book  is  one  of  great  attraction  and  interest,  and 
takes,  if  I  may  judge  by  my  own  experience,  a  high  rank  for 
enchaining  power  among  that  class  of  Balzac's  books  which 
cannot  be  put  exactly  highest.  If  the  changes  made  in  it  by 
its  author  have  to  some  extent  dislocated  it  as  a  whole,  they 
have  resulted  in  very  high  excellence  for  almost  all  the  parts. 

As  something  has  necessarily  been  said  already  about  the 
book-history  of  the  "  Country  Parson,"  little  remains  but  to 
give  exact  dates  and  places  of  appearance.  The  Presse  pub- 
lished the  (original)  first  part  in  December-January,  1838-39, 
the  original  second  (**  Veronique  ")  six  months  later,  and  the 


xii  PREFACE. 

third  ("Veronique  au  Tombeau")  in  August.  All  had 
chapters  and  chapter-titles.  As  a  book  it  was  in  its  first  com- 
plete form  published  by  Souverain  in  1841,  and  was  again 
altered  when  it  took  rank  in  the  "  Comedie  "  six  years  later. 

"Albert  Savaron,"  with  its  enshrined  story  of  "L'Ambi- 
teux  par  Amour"  (something  of  an  oddity  for  Balzac,  who 
often  puts  a  story  within  a  story,  but  less  formally  than  this) 
contains  various  appeals,  and  shows  not  a  few  of  its  author's 
well-known  interests  in  politics,  in  affairs,  in  newspapers,  not 
to  mention  the  enumerations  of  dots  and  fortunes  which  he 
never  could  refuse  himself.  The  affection  of  Savaron  for  the 
Duchesse  d'Argaiolo  may  interest  different  persons  differently. 
It  seems  to  me  a  little  fade.  But  the  character  of  Rosalie  de 
Watteville  is  in  a  very  different  rank.  Here  only,  except, 
perhaps,  in  the  case  of  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  whose  un- 
lucky experiences  had  emancipated  her,  has  Balzac  depicted 
a  girl  full  of  character,  individuality,  and  life.  It  was  appar- 
ently necessary  that  Rosalie  should  be  made  not  wholly  amiable 
in  order  to  obtain  this  accession  of  wits  and  force,  and  to  be 
freed  from  the  fatal  gift  of  candeur,  the  curse  of  the  French 
ingenue.  Her  creator  has  also  thought  proper  to  punish  her 
further,  and  cruelly,  at  the  end  of  the  book.  Nevertheless, 
though  her  story  may  be  less  interesting  than  either  of  theirs, 
it  is  impossible  not  to  put  her  in  a  much  higher  rank  as  a 
heroine  than  either  Grandet  or  Ursule,  and  not  to  wish  that 
Balzac  had  included  the  conception  of  her  in  a  more  impor- 
tant structure  of  fiction. 

Albert  Savaron  appeared  in  sixty  headed  chapters  in  the 
Steele  for  May  and  June,  1842,  and  then  assumed  its  place  in 
the  "Comedie."  But  though  left  there,  it  also  formed  part 
of  a  two-volume  issue  by  Souverain  in  1844,  in  company  with 
**La  Muse  du  Department."  **  Rosalie  "  was  at  first  named 
"Philomdne." 

G.  S. 


THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

(Z<r  Cure  de  Village.') 

I. 

VERONIQUE. 

At  the  lower  end  of  Limoges,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de 
la  Vieille-Poste  and  the  Rue  de  la  Cite,  there  stood,  some 
thirty  years  back,  an  old-fashioned  shop  of  the  kind  that 
seems  to  have  changed  in  nothing  since  the  middle  ages.  The 
great  stone  paving-slabs,  riven  with  countless  cracks,  were  laid 
upon  the  earth ;  the  damp  oozed  up  through  them  here  and 
there ;  while  the  heights  and  hollows  of  this  primitive  floor- 
ing would  have  tripped  up  those  who  were  not  careful  to 
observe  them.  Through  the  dust  on  the  walls  it  was  possible 
to  discern  a  sort  of  mosaic  of  timber  and  bricks,  iron  and 
stone,  a  heterogeneous  mass  which  owed  its  compact  solidity 
to  time,  and  perhaps  to  chance.  For  more  than  two  centu- 
ries the  huge  rafters  of  the  ceiling  had  bent  without  break- 
ing beneath  the  weight  of  the  upper  stories,  which  were 
constructed  of  wooden  framework,  protected  from  the  weather 
by  slates  arranged  in  a  geometrical  pattern ;  altogether,  it  was 
a  quaint  example  of  a  burgess'  house  in  olden  times.  Once 
there  had  been  carved  figures  on  the  wooden  window-frames, 
but  sun  and  rain  had  destroyed  the  ornaments,  and  the  windows 
themselves  stood  all  awry;  some  bent  outwards,  some  bent  in, 
yet  others  were  minded  to  part  company,  and  one  and  all 
carried  a  little  soil  deposited  (it  would  be  hard  to  say  how) 
in  crannies  hollowed  by  the  rain,  where  a  few  shy  creeping 
plants  and  thin  weeds    grew  to  break  into    meagre  blossom 

(1) 


2  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

in  the  spring.  Velvet  mosses  covered  the  roof  and  the 
window-sills. 

The  pillar  which  supported  the  corner  of  the  house,  built 
though  it  was  of  composite  masonry,  that  is  to  say,  partly 
of  stone,  partly  of  brick  and  flints,  was  alarming  to  behold 
by  reason  of  its  curvature ;  it  looked  as  though  it  must  give 
way  some  day  beneath  the  weight  of  the  superstructure  whose 
gable  projected  fully  six  inches.  For  which  reason  the  local 
authorities  and  the  board  of  works  bought  the  house  and 
pulled  it  down  to  widen  the  street.  The  venerable  corner 
pillar  had  its  charms  for  lovers  of  old  Limoges ;  it  carried  a 
pretty  sculptured  shrine  and  a  mutilated  image  of  the  Virgin, 
broken  during  the  Revolution.  Citizens  of  an  archaeological 
turn  could  discover  traces  of  the  stone  sill  meant  to  hold 
candlesticks  and  to  receive  wax-tapers  and  flowers  and  votive 
offerings  of  the  pious. 

Within  the  shop  a  wooden  staircase  at  the  further  end  gave 
access  to  the  two  floors  above  and  to  the  attics  in  the  roof.  The 
house  itself,  packed  in  between  two  neighboring  dwellings, 
had  little  depth  from  back  to  front,  and  no  light  save  from  the 
windows  which  gave  upon  the  street,  the  two  rooms  on  each 
floor  having  a  window  apiece,  one  looking  out  into  the  Rue 
de  la  Vieille-Poste  and  the  other  into  the  Rue  de  la  Cite.  In 
the  middle  ages  no  artisan  was  better  housed.  The  old  corner 
shop  must  surely  have  belonged  to  some  armorer  or  cutler, 
or  master  of  some  craft  which  could  be  carried  on  in  the 
open  air,  for  it  was  impossible  for  its  inmates  to  see  until 
the  heavily-ironed  shutters  were  taken  down  and  air  as  well 
as  light  freely  admitted.  There  were  two  doors  (as  is  usually 
the  case  where  a  shop  faces  into  two  streets),  one  on  either 
side  the  pillar.  But  for  the  interruption  of  the  white  thres- 
hold stones,  hollowed  by  the  wear  of  centuries,  the  whole  shop 
front  consisted  of  a  low  wall  which  rose  to  elbow  height. 
Along  the  top  of  this  wall  a  groove  had  been  contrived,  and  a 
similar  groove  ran  the  length  of  the  beam  above,  which  sup- 


V&RONIQUE.  3 

ported  the  weight  of  the  house  wall.  Into  these  grooves  slid 
the  heavy  shutters,  secured  by  huge  iron  bolts  and  bars  ;  and 
when  the  doorways  had  been  made  fast  in  like  manner,  the 
artisan's  workshop  was  as  good  as  a  fortress. 

For  the  first  twenty  years  of  this  present  century  the  Lim- 
ousins had  been  accustomed  to  see  the  interior  filled  up  with 
old  iron  and  brass,  cart-springs,  tires,  bells,  and  every  sort  of 
metal  from  the  demolition  of  houses ;  but  the  curious  in  the 
debris  of  the  old  town  discovered,  on  a  closer  inspection,  the 
traces  of  a  forge  in  the  place  and  a  long  streak  of  soot,  signs 
which  confirmed  the  guesses  of  archaeologists  as  to  the  original 
purpose  of  the  dwelling.  On  the  first  floor  there  was  a  living 
room  and  a  kitchen,  two  more  rooms  on  the  second,  and  an 
attic  in  the  roof,  which  was  used  as  a  warehouse  for  goods 
more  fragile  than  the  hardware  tumbled  down  pell-mell  in  the 
shop. 

The  house  had  been  first  let  and  then  sold  to  one  Sauviat, 
a  hawker,  who  from  1792  till  1796  traveled  in  Auvergne  for  a 
distance  of  fifty  leagues  round,  bartering  pots,  plates,  dishes, 
and  glasses,  all  the  gear,  in  fact,  needed  by  the  poorest  cot- 
tagers, for  old  iron,  brass,  lead,  and  metal  of  every  sort  and 
description.  The  Auvergnat  would  give  a  brown  earthen  pip- 
kin worth  a  couple  of  sous  for  a  pound  weight  of  lead  or  a 
couple  of  pounds  of  iron,  a  broken  spade  or  hoe,  or  an  old 
cracked  saucepan  ;  and  was  always  judge  in  his  own  cause, 
and  gave  his  own  weights.  In  three  years'  time  Sauviat  took 
another  trade  in  addition,  and  became  a  tinman. 

In  1 793  he  was  able  to  buy  a  chateau  put  up  for  sale  by  the 
nation.  This  he  pulled  down  ]  and  doubtless  repeated  a  pro- 
fitable experiment  at  more  than  one  point  in  his  sphere  of 
operations.  After  a  while  these  first  essays  of  his  gave  him 
an  idea  ;  he  suggested  a  piece  of  business  on  a  large  scale  to 
a  fellow-countryman  in  Paris ;  and  so  it  befell  that  the  Black 
Band,  so  notorious  for  the  havoc  which  it  wrought  among  old 
buildings,  was  a  sprout  of  old  Sauviat's  brain,  the  invention 


4  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

of  the  hawker  whom  all  Limoges  had  seen  for  seven-and- 
twenty  years  in  his  tumble-down  shop  among  his  broken  bells, 
flails,  chains,  brackets,  twisted  leaden  gutters,  and  heteroge- 
neous old  iron.  In  justice  to  Sauviat,  it  should  be  said  that 
he  never  knew  how  large  and  how  notorious  the  association 
became ;  he  only  profited  by  it  to  the  extent  of  the  capital 
which  he  invested  with  the  famous  firm  of  Brezac. 

At  last  the  Auvergnat  grew  tired  of  roaming  from  fair  to 
fair  and  place  to  place,  and  settled  down  in  Limoges,  where, 
in  1797,  he  had  married  a  wife,  the  motherless  daughter  of  a 
tinman,  Champagnac  by  name.  When  the  father-in-law  died, 
he  bought  the  house  in  which  he  had,  in  a  manner,  localized 
his  trade  in  old  iron,  though  for  some  three  years  after  his 
marriage  he  had  still  made  his  rounds,  his  wife  accompanying 
him.  Sauviat  had  completed  his  fiftieth  year  when  he  married 
old  Champagnac' s  daughter,  and  the  bride  herself  was  cer- 
tainly thirty  years  old  at  the  least.  Champagnac's  girl  was 
neither  pretty  nor  blooming.  She  was  born  in  Auvergne, 
and  the  dialect  was  a  mutual  attraction ;  she  was,  moreover, 
of  the  heavy  build  which  enables  a  woman  to  stand  the 
roughest  work ;  so  she  went  with  Sauviat  on  his  rounds,  car- 
ried loads  of  lead  and  iron  on  her  back,  and  drove  the  sorry 
carrier's  van  full  of  the  pottery  on  which  her  husband  made 
usurious  profits,  little  as  his  customers  imagined  it.  La  Cham- 
pagnac was  sunburned  and  high-colored.  She  enjoyed  rude 
health,  exhibiting  when  she  laughed  a  row  of  teeth  large  and 
white  as  blanched  almonds,  and,  as  to  physique,  possessed  the 
bust  and  hips  of  a  woman  destined  by  nature  to  be  a  mother. 
Her  prolonged  spinsterhood  was  entirely  due  to  her  father ; 
he  had  not  read  Moli^re,  but  he  raised  Harpagon's  cry  of 
^^ Sans  dotf'^  which  scared  suitors.  The  "Sans  dot"  did 
not  frighten  Sauviat  away  ;  he  was  not  averse  to  receiving  the 
bride  without  a  portion  ;  in  the  first  place,  a  would-be  bride- 
groom of  fifty  ought  not  to  raise  difficulties ;  and,  in  the  sec- 
ond, his  wife  saved  him  the  expense  of  a  servant.     He  added 


•       V&RONIQUE.  5 

nothing  to  the  furniture  of  his  room.  On  his  wedding-day  it 
contained  a  four-post  bedstead  hung  with  green  serge  curtains 
and  a  valance  with  a  scalloped  edge ;  a  dresser,  a  chest  of 
drawers,  four  easy-chairs,  a  table,  and  a  looking-glass,  all 
bought  at  different  times  and  from  different  places ;  and  till 
he  left  the  old  house  for  good,  the  list  remained  the  same. 
On  the  upper  shelves  of  the  dresser  stood  sundry  pewter  plates 
and  dishes,  no  two  of  them  alike.  After  this  description  of 
the  bedroom,  the  kitchen  may  be  left  to  the  reader's  imagina- 
tion. 

Neither  husband  nor  wife  could  read,  a  slight  defect  of 
education  which  did  not  prevent  them  from  reckoning  money 
to  admiration,  nor  from  carrying  on  one  of  the  most  pros- 
perous of  all  trades,  for  Sauviat  never  bought  anything  unless 
he  felt  sure  of  making  a  hundred  per  cent,  on  the  transaction, 
and  dispensed  with  bookkeeping  and  counting-house  by  carry- 
ing on  a  ready-money  business.  He  possessed,  moreover,  a 
faculty  of  memory  so  perfect  that  an  article  might  remain  for 
five  years  in  his  shop,  and  at  the  end  of  the  time  both  he  and 
his  wife  could  recollect  the  price  they  gave  for  it  to  a  farthing, 
together  with,  the  added  interest  for  every  year  since  the  out- 
lay. 

Sauviat's  wife,  when  she  was  not  busy  about  the  house, 
always  sat  on  a  rickety  wooden  chair  in  her  shop-door  beside 
the  pillar,  knitting,  and  watching  the  passers-by,  keeping  an 
eye  on  the  old  iron,  and  selling,  weighing,  and  delivering  it 
herself  if  Sauviat  was  out  on  one  of  his  journeys.  At  day- 
break you  might  hear  the  dealer  in  old  iron  taking  down  the 
shutters,  the  dog  was  let  loose  into  the  street,  and  very  soon 
Sauviat's  wife  came  down  to  help  her  husband  to  arrange  their 
wares.  Against  the  low  wall  of  the  shop  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Cite  and  the  Rue  de  la  Vieille-Poste,  they  propped  their 
heterogeneous  collection  of  broken  gun-barrels,  cart  springs, 
and  harness  bells — all  the  gimcracks,  in  short,  which  served  as 
a  trade  sign  and  gave  a  sufficiently  poverty-stricken  look  to  a 


«  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

shop  which  in  reality  often  contained  twenty  thousand  francs 
worth  of  lead,  steel,  and  bell  metal.  The  retired  hawker  and 
his  wife  never  spoke  of  their  money  ;  they  hid  it  as  a  male- 
factor conceals  a  crime,  and  for  a  long  while  were  suspected 
of  clipping  gold  louis  and  silver  crowns. 

When  old  Champagnac  died,  the  Sauviats  made  no  inven- 
tory. They  searched  every  corner  and  cranny  of  the  old 
man's  house  with  the  quickness  of  rats,  stripped  it  bare  as  a 
corpse,  and  sold  the  tinware  themselves  in  their  own  shop. 
Once  every  year,  when  December  came  round,  Sauviat  would 
go  to  Paris,  traveling  in  a  public  conveyance  ;  from  which 
premises,  observers  in  the  quarter  concluded  that  the  dealer  in 
old  iron  saw  to  his  investments  in  Paris  himself,  so  that  he 
might  keep  the  amount  of  his  money  a  secret.  It  came  out 
in  after  years  that  as  a  lad  Sauviat  had  known  one  of  the  most 
celebrated  metal  merchants  in  Paris,  a  fellow-countryman 
from  Auvergne,  and  that  Sauviat's  savings  were  invested  with 
the  prosperous  firm  of  Brezac,  the  corner-stone  of  the  famous 
association  of  the  Black  Band,  which  was  started,  as  has  been 
said,  by  Sauviat's  advice,  and  in  which  he  held  shares. 

Sauviat  was  short  and  stout.  He  had  a  weary-looking  face 
and  an  honest  expression,  which  attracted  customers,  and  was 
of  no  little  use  to  him  in  the  matter  of  sales.  The  dryness  of 
his  affirmations,  and  the  perfect  indifference  of  his  manner, 
aided  his  pretensions.  It  was  not  easy  to  guess  the  color  of 
the  skin  beneath  the  black  metallic  grime  which  covered  his 
curly  hair  and  countenance  seamed  with  the  smallpox.  His 
forehead  was  not  without  a  certain  nobility ;  indeed,  he 
resembled  the  traditional  type  chosen  by  painters  for  Saint 
Peter,  the  man  of  the  people  among  the  apostles,  the  roughest 
among  their  number,  and  likewise  the  shrewdest ;  Sauviat  had 
the  hands  of  an  indefatigable  worker,  rifted  by  ineffaceable 
cracks,  square-shaped,  and  coarse  and  large.  The  muscular 
framework  of  his  chest  seemed  indestructible.  All  through 
his  life  he  dressed  like  a  hawker,  wearing  the  thick  iron-bound 


V^ROXIQUE.  7 

shoes,  the  blue  stockings  which  his  wife  knitted  for  him,  the 
leather  gaiters,  breeches  of  bottle-green  velveteen,  a  coat  with 
short  skirts  of  the  same  material,  and  a  flapped  waistcoat, 
where  the  copper  key  of  a  silver  watch  dangled  from  an  iron 
chain,  worn  by  constant  friction  till  it  shone  like  polished 
steel.  Round  his  neck  he  wore  a  cotton  handkerchief,  frayed 
by  the  constant  rubbing  of  his  beard.  On  Sundays  and  holi- 
days he  appeared  in  a  maroon  overcoat  so  carefully  kept  that 
he  bought  a  new  one  but  twice  in  a  score  of  years. 

As  for  their  manner  of  living,  the  convicts  in  the  hulks 
might  be  said  to  fare  sumptuously  in  comparison ;  it  was  a 
day  of  high  festival  indeed  when  they  ate  meat.  Before  La 
Sauviat  could  bring  herself  to  part  with  the  money  needed 
for  their  daily  sustenance,  she  rummaged  through  the  two 
pockets  under  her  skirt,  and  never  drew  forth  coin  that 
was  not  clipped  or  light  weight,  eyeing  the  crowns  of  six  livres 
and  fifty-sous  pieces  dolorously  before  she  changed  one  of 
them.  The  Sauviats  contented  themselves,  for  the  most  part, 
with  herrings,  dried  peas,  cheese,  hard-boiled  eggs  and  salad, 
and  vegetables  dressed  in  the  cheapest  way.  They  lived  from 
hand  to  mouth,  laying  in  nothing  except  a  bundle  of  garlic  now 
and  again,  or  a  rope  of  onions,  which  could  not  spoil,  and 
cost  them  a  mere  trifle.  As  for  firewood,  La  Sauviat  bought 
the  few  sticks  which  they  required  in  winter  of  the  faggot- 
sellers  day  by  day.  By  seven  o'clock  in  winter  and  nine  in 
summer  the  shutters  were  fastened,  the  master  and  mistress  in 
bed,  and  their  huge  dog,  who  picked  up  his  living  in  the 
kitchens  of  the  quarter,  on  guard  in  the  shop ;  Mother  Sau- 
viat did  not  spend  three  francs  a  year  on  candles. 

A  joy  came  into  their  sober  hard-working  lives ;  it  was  a 
joy  that  came  in  the  natural  order  of  things,  and  caused  the 
only  outlay  which  they  had  been  known  to  make.  In  May, 
1802,  La  Sauviat  bore  a  daughter.  No  one  was  called  in  to  her 
assistance,  and  five  days  later  she  was  stirring  about  her  house 
again.     She  nursed  her  child  herself,  sitting  on  the  chair  in 


8  THE    COUNTRY  PARSON. 

the  doorway,  selling  her  wares  as  usual,  with  the  baby  at  her 
breast.  Her  milk  cost  nothing,  so  for  two  years  she  suckled 
the  little  one,  who  was  none  the  worse  for  it,  for  little  Vero- 
nique  grew  to  be  the  prettiest  child  in  the  lower  town,  so 
pretty  indeed  that  passers-by  would  stop  to  look  at  her.  The 
neighbors  saw  in  old  Sauviat  traces  of  a  tenderness  of  which 
they  had  believed  him  incapable.  While  the  wife  made  the 
dinner  ready  he  used  to  rock  the  little  one  in  his  arms,  croon- 
ing the  refrain  of  some  Auvergnat  song ;  and  the  workmen 
as  they  passed  sometimes  saw  him  sitting  motionless,  gazing 
at  little  Veronique  asleep  on  her  mother's  knee.  His  gruff 
voice  grew  gentle  for  the  child ;  he  would  wipe  his  hands  on 
his  trousers  before  taking  her  up.  When  Veronique  was  learn- 
ing to  walk,  her  father  squatted  on  his  heels  four  paces  away, 
holding  out  his  arms  to  her,  gleeful  smiles  puckering  the  deep 
wrinkles  on  the  harsh,  stern  face  of  bronze  ;  it  seemed  as  if 
the  man  of  iron,  brass,  and  lead  had  once  more  become  flesh 
and  blood.  As  he  stood  leaning  against  the  pillar  motionless 
as  a  statue,  he  would  start  at  a  cry  from  Veronique,  and  spring 
over  the  iron  to  find  her,  for  she  spent  her  childhood  in  play- 
ing about  among  the  metallic  spoils  of  old  chateaux  heaped 
up  in  the  recesses  of  the  shop,  and  never  hurt  herself ;  and  if 
she  played  in  the  street  or  with  the  neighbors'  children,  she 
was  never  allowed  out  of  her  mother's  sight. 

It  is  worth  while  to  add  that  the  Sauviats  were  eminently 
devout.  Even  when  the  Revolution  was  at  its  height  Sauviat 
kept  Sundays  and  holidays  punctually.  Twice  in  those  days 
he  had  all  but  lost  his  head  for  going  to  hear  mass  said  by  a 
priest  who  had  not  taken  the  oath  to  the  Republic.  He  found 
himself  in  prison  at  last,  justly  accused  of  conniving  at  the 
escape  of  a  bishop  whose  life  he  had  saved  ;  but  luckily  for 
the  hawker,  steel  files  and  iron  bars  were  old  acquaintances  of 
his,  and  he  made  his  escape.  Whereupon  the  court  finding 
that  he  failed  to  put  in  an  appearance,  gave  judgment  by 
default,  and  condemned  him  to  death ;  and  it  may  be  added 


vAjronique.  9 

that,  as  he  never  returned  to  clear  himself,  he  finally  died 
under  sentence  of  death.  In  his  religious  sentiments  his  wife 
shared ;  the  parsimonious  rule  of  the  household  was  only  re- 
laxed in  the  name  of  religion.  Punctually  the  two  paid  their 
quota  for  sacramental  bread,  and  gave  money  for  charity.  If 
the  curate  of  Saint-Etienne  came  to  ask  for  alms,  Sauviat  or 
his  wife  gave  without  fuss  or  hesitation  what  they  believed  to 
be  their  due  share  towards  the  funds  of  the  parish.  The 
broken  Virgin  on  their  pillar  was  decked  with  sprays  of  box 
when  Easter  came  round  ;  and  so  long  as  there  were  flowers, 
the  passers-by  saw  that  the  blue-glass  bouquet-holders  were 
never  empty,  and  this  especially  after  Veronique's  birth. 
Whenever  there  was  a  procession  the  Sauviats  never  failed  to 
drape  their  house  with  hangings  and  garlands,  and  contributed 
to  the  erection  and  adornment  of  the  altar — the  pride  of  their 
street. 

So  Veronique  was  brought  up  in  the  Christian  faith.  As 
soon  as  she  was  seven  years  old  she  was  educated  by  a  gray 
sister,  an  Auvergnate,  to  whom  the  Sauviats  had  rendered 
some  little  service  ;  for  both  of  them  were  sufficiently  obliging 
so  long  as  their  time  or  their  substance  was  not  in  question, 
and  helpful  after  the  manner  of  the  poor,  who  lend  themselves 
with  a  certain  heartiness.  It  was  the  Franciscan  sister  who 
taught  Veronique  to  read  and  write ;  she  instructed  her  pupil 
in  the  History  of  the  People  of  God,  in  the  Catechism  and 
the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  and,  to  a  certain  small  extent, 
in  the  rules  of  arithmetic.  That  was  all.  The  good  sister 
thought  that  it  would  be  enough,  but  even  this  was  too  much. 

Veronique  at  nine  years  of  age  astonished  the  quarter  by 
her  beauty.  Every  one  admired  a  face  which  might  one  day 
be  worthy  of  the  pencil  of  some  impassioned  seeker  after  an 
ideal  type.  "The  little  Virgin,"  as  they  called  her,  gave 
promise  of  being  graceful  of  form  and  fair  of  face  ;  the  thick, 
bright  hair  which  set  off  the  delicate  outlines  of  her  features 
completed  her  resemblance  to  the  Madonna.    Those  who  have 


10  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

seen  the  divine  child-virgin  in  Titian's  great  picture  of  the 
Presentation  in  the  Temple  may  know  what  Veronique  was 
like  in  these  years ;  she  had  the  same  frank  innocence  of  ex- 
pression, the  same  look  as  of  a  wondering  seraph  in  her  eyes, 
the  same  noble  simplicity,  the  same  queenly  bearing. 

Two  years  later,  Veronique  fell  ill  of  the  smallpox,  and 
would  have  died  of  it  but  for  Sister  Martha,  who  nursed  her. 
During  those  two  months,  while  her  life  was  in  danger,  the 
quarter  learned  how  tenderly  the  Sauviats  loved  their  daughter. 
Sauviat  attended  no  sales  and  went  nowhere.  All  day  long  he 
stayed  in  the  shop,  or  went  restlessly  up  and  down  the  stairs, 
and  he  and  his  wife  sat  up  night  after  night  with  the  child. 
So  deep  was  his  dumb  grief  that  no  one  dared  to  speak  to  him ; 
the  neighbors  watched  him  pityingly,  and  asked  for  news  of 
Veronique  of  no  one  but  Sister  Martha.  The  days  came  when 
the  child's  life  hung  by  a  thread,  and  neighbors  and  passers- 
by  saw,  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  Sauviat's  life,  the  slow 
tears  rising  under  his  eyelids  and  rolling  down  his  hollow 
cheeks.  He  never  wiped  them  away.  For  hours  he  sat  like 
one  stupefied,  not  daring  to  go  upstairs  to  the  sick-room, 
staring  before  him  with  unseeing  eyes ;  he  might  have  been 
robbed,  and  he  would  not  have  noticed  it. 

Veronique's  life  was  saved,  not  so  her  beauty.  A  uniform 
tint,  in  which  red  and  brown  were  evenly  blended,  overspread 
her  face;  the  disease  left  countless  little  scars  which  coarsened 
the  surface  of  the  skin,  and  wrought  havoc  with  the  delicate 
underlying  tissues.  Nor  had  her  forehead  escaped  the  rav- 
ages of  the  scourge ;  it  was  brown,  and  covered  with  dints 
like  the  marks  of  hammer-strokes.  No  combination  is  more 
discordant  than  a  muddy-brown  complexion  and  fair  hair ; 
the  pre-established  harmony  of  coloring  is  broken.  Deep 
irregular  seams  in  the  surface  had  spoiled  the  purity  of  her 
features  and  the  delicacy  of  the  outlines  of  her  face ;  the 
Grecian  profile,  the  subtle  curves  of  a  chin  finely  moulded  as 
white  porcelain,  were  scarcely  discernible  between  the  coars- 


V&RONIQUR.  11 

ened  skin  ;  the  disease  had  only  spared  what  it  was  powerless 
to  injure — the  teeth  and  eyes.  But  Veronique  did  not  lose 
her  grace  and  beauty  of  form,  the  full  rounded  curves  of  her 
figure,  nor  the  slenderness  of  her  waist.  At  fifteen  she  was  a 
graceful  girl,  and  (for  the  comfort  of  the  Sauviats)  a  good 
girl  and  devout,  hard-working,  industrious,  always  at  home. 

After  her  convalescence  and  first  communion,  her  father  and 
mother  arranged  for  her  the  two  rooms  on  the  second  floor. 
Some  glimmering  notion  of  what  is  meant  by  comfort  passed 
through  old  Sauviat's  mind ;  hard  fare  might  do  for  him  and 
his  wife,  but  now  a  dim  idea  of  making  compensation  for  a 
loss  which  his  daughter  had  not  felt  as  yet  crossed  his  brain. 
Veronique  had  lost  the  beauty  of  which  these  two  had  been 
so  proud,  and  thenceforward  became  the  dearer  to  them  and 
the  more  precious  in  their  eyes. 

So  one  day  Sauviat  came  in,  carrying  a  carpet,  a  chance 
purchase,  on  his  back,  and  this  he  himself  nailed  down  on 
the  floor  of  Veronique's  room.  He  went  to  a  sale  of  furni- 
ture at  a  chateau  and  secured  for  her  the  red  damask-curtained 
bed  of  some  great  lady,  and  hangings  and  chairs  and  easy- 
chairs  covered  with  the  same  stuff.  Gradually  he  furnished 
his  daughter's  rooms  with  second-hand  purchases,  in  complete 
ignorance  of  the  real  value  of  the  things.  He  set  pots  of 
mignonette  on  the  window-sill,  and  brought  back  flowers  for 
her  from  his  wanderings ;  sometimes  it  was  a  rosebush,  some- 
times a  tree-carnation,  and  plants  of  all  kinds,  doubtless  given 
to  him  by  gardeners  and  innkeepers.  If  Veronique  had 
known  enough  of  other  people  to  draw  comparisons,  and  to 
understand  their  manners  of  life  and  the  characters  and  the 
ignorance  of  her  parents,  she  would  have  known  how  great 
the  affection  was  which  showed  itself  in  these  little  things ; 
but  the  girl  gave  her  father  and  mother  the  love  that  springs 
from  an  exquisite  nature — an  instinctive  and  unreasoning 
love. 

Veronique  must  have  the  finest  linen  which  her  mother 


12  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

could  buy,  and  La  Sauviat  allowed  her  daughter  to  choose  her 
own  dresses.  Both  father  and  mother  were  pleased  with  her 
moderation  ;  Veronique  had  no  ruinous  tastes.  A  blue-silk 
gown  for  holiday  wear,  a  winter  dress  of  coarse  merino  for 
working-days,  and  a  striped  cotton  gown  in  summer;  with 
these  she  was  content. 

On  Sunday  she  went  to  mass  with  her  father  and  mother, 
and  walked  with  them  after  vespers  along  the  banks  of  the 
Vienne  or  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  town.  All  through  the 
week  she  stayed  in  the  house,  busy  over  the  tapestry- work, 
which  was  sold  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor,  or  the  plain  sewing 
for  the  hospital — no  life  could  be  more  simple,  more  innocent, 
more  exemplary  than  hers.  She  had  other  occupations  beside 
her  sewing ;  she  read  to  herself,  but  only  such  books  as  the 
curate  of  Saint-Etienne  loaned  to  her.  (Sister  Martha  had 
introduced  the  priest  to  the  Sauviat  family.) 

For  Veronique  all  the  laws  of  the  household  economy  were 
set  aside.  Her  mother  delighted  to  cook  dainty  fare  for  her, 
and  made  separate  dishes  for  her  daughter.  Father  and 
mother  might  continue,  as  before,  to  eat  the  walnuts  and  the 
hard  bread,  the  herrings,  and  the  dried  peas  fried  with  a  little 
salt  butter ;  but  for  Veronique,  nothing  was  fresh  enough  nor 
good  enough. 

"Veronique  must  be  a  great  expense  to  you,"  remarked  the 
hatter  who  lived  opposite.  He  estimated  old  Sauviat's  fortune 
at  a  hundred  thousand  francs,  and  had  thoughts  of  Veronique 
for  his  son. 

"  Yes,  neighbor ;  yes,  neighbor ;  yes,"  old  Sauviat  answered, 
"  she  might  ask  me  for  ten  crowns,  and  I  sliould  let  her  have 
them,  I  should.  She  has  everything  she  wants,  but  she 
never  asks  for  anything.  She  is  as  good  and  gentle  as  a 
lamb !  " 

And,  in  fact,  Veronique  did  not  know  the  price  of  any- 
thing ;  she  had  no  wants ;  she  never  saw  a  piece  of  gold  till 
the  day  of  her  marriage,  and  had  no  money  of  her  own  \  her 


VARONIQUE.  15 

mother  bought  and  gave  to  her  all  that  she  wished,  and  even 
for  a  beggar  she  drew  upon  her  mother's  pockets. 

"  Then  she  doesn't  cost  you  much,"  commented  the  hatter. 

"That  is  what  you  think,  is  it?"  retorted  Sauviat.  "You 
wouldn't  do  it  on  less  than  forty  crowns  a  year.  You  should 
see  her  room  !  There  is  a  hundred  crowns'  worth  of  furniture 
in  it ;  but  when  you  have  only  one  girl,  you  can  indulge  your- 
self; and,  after  all,  what  little  we  have  will  all  be  hers  some 
day." 

^^ Little  ?  You  must  be  rich,  Father  Sauviat.  These  forty 
years  you  have  been  in  a  line  of  business  where  there  are  no 
losses." 

"  Oh,  they  shouldn't  cut  my  ears  off  for  a  matter  of  twelve 
hundred  francs,"  said  the  dealer  in  old  iron. 

From  the  day  when  Veronique  lost  the  delicate  beauty 
which  every  one  had  admired  in  her  childish  face,  old  Sauviat 
had  worked  twice  as  hard  as  before.  His  business  revived 
again,  and  prospered  so  well,  that  he  went  to  Paris  not  once, 
but  several  times  a  year.  People  guessed  his  motives.  If  his 
girl  had  gone  off  in  looks,  he  would  make  up  for  it  in  money, 
to  use  his  own  language. 

When  V6ronique  was  about  fifteen  another  change  was 
wrought  in  the  household  ways.  The  father  and  mother  went 
up  to  their  daughter's  room  of  an  evening,  and  listened  while 
she  read  aloud  to  them  from  the  "Lives  of  the  Saints,"  or 
the  "  Lettres  edifiantes,"  or  from  some  other  book  loaned  by 
the  curate  of  Saint-Etienne.  The  lamp  was  set  behind  a 
glass  globe  full  of  water,  and  Mother  Sauviat  knitted  indus- 
triously, thinking  in  this  way  to  pay  for  the  oil.  The  neigh- 
bors opposite  could  look  into  the  room  and  see  the  two  old 
people  sitting  there,  motionless  as  two  carved  Chinese  figures, 
listening  intently,  admiring  their  daughter  with  all  the  power 
of  an  intelligence  that  was  dim  enough  save  in  matters  of  busi- 
ness or  religion.  Doubtless  there  have  been  girls  as  pure  as 
V6ronique — there  have  been  none  purer  nor  more  modest. 


14  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Her  confession  surely  filled  the  angels  with  wonder,  and  glad- 
dened the  Virgin  in  heaven.  She  was  now  sixteen  years  old, 
and  perfectly  developed ;  you  beheld  in  her  the  woman  she 
would  be.  She  was  a  medium  height,  neither  the  father  nor 
the  mother  was  tall ;  but  the  most  striking  thing  about  her 
figure  was  its  lissome  grace,  the  sinuous,  gracious  curves  which 
nature  herself  traces  so  finely,  which  the  artist  strives  so  pain- 
fully to  render;  the  soft  contours  that  reveal  themselves  to 
practiced  eyes,  for  in  spite  of  folds  of  linen  and  thickness  of 
stuff,  the  dress  is  always  moulded  and  informed  by  the  body. 
Simple,  natural  and  sincere,  V^ronique  set  this  physical  beauty 
in  relief  by  her  unaffected  freedom  of  movement.  She  pro- 
duced her  "  full  and  entire  effect,"  if  it  is  permissible  to  make 
use  of  the  forcible  legal  phrase.  She  had  the  full-fleshed  arms 
of  an  Auvergnate,  the  red,  plump  hands  of  a  buxom  inn- 
servant,  and  feet  strongly  made,  but  shapely,  and  in  propor- 
tion to  her  height. 

Sometimes  there  w^as  wrought  in  her  an  exquisite  mysterious 
change ;  suddenly  it  was  revealed  that  in  this  frame  dwelt  a 
woman  hidden  from  all  eyes  but  Love's.  Perhaps  it  was  this 
transfiguration  which  awakened  an  admiration  of  her  beauty 
in  the  father  and  mother,  who  astonished  the  neighbors  by 
speaking  of  it  as  something  divine.  The  first  to  see  it  were 
the  clergy  of  the  cathedral  and  the  communicants  at  the 
table  of  the  Lord.  When  Veronique's  face  was  lighted  up  by 
impassioned  feeling — and  the  mystical  ecstasy  which  filled  her 
at  such  times  is  one  of  the  strongest  emotions  in  the  life  of 
so  innocent  a  girl — it  seemed  as  if  a  bright  inner  radiance 
effaced  the  traces  of  the  smallpox,  and  the  pure,  bright  face 
appeared  once  more  in  the  first  beauty  of  childhood.  Scarcely 
obscured  by  the  thin  veil  of  tissues  coarsened  by  the  dis- 
ease, her  face  shone  like  some  flower  in  dim  places  under  the 
sea,  when  the  sunlight  strikes  down  and  invests  it  with  a 
mysterious  glory.  For  a  few  brief  moments  Veronique  was 
transfigured,  the  little  Virgin  appeared  and  disappeared  like 


VERONIQUE.  15 

a  vision  from  heaven.  The  pupils  of  her  eyes,  which  pos- 
sessed in  a  high  degree  the  power  of  contracting,  seemed  at 
such  seasons  to  dilate  and  overspread  the  blue  of  the  iris, 
which  diminished  till  it  became  nothing  more  than  a  slender 
ring  ;  the  change  in  the  eyes,  which  thus  grew  piercing  as  the 
eagle's,  completing  the  wonderful  change  in  the  face.  Was  it 
a  storm  of  repressed  and  passionate  longing,  was  it  some 
power  which  had  its  source  in  the  depths  of  her  nature,  which 
made  those  eyes  dilate  in  broad  daylight  as  other  eyes  widen 
in  shadow,  darkening  their  heavenly  blue  ?  Whatever  the 
cause,  it  was  impossible  to  look  upon  Veronique  with  indiffer- 
ence as  she  returned  to  her  place  after  having  been  made  one 
with  God  ;  all  present  beheld  her  in  the  radiance  of  her  early 
beauty ;  at  such  times  she  would  have  eclipsed  the  fairest 
woman  in  her  loveliness.  What  a  charm  for  a  jealous  lover  in 
that  veil  of  flesh  which  should  hide  his  love  from  all  other 
eyes ;  a  veil  which  the  hand  of  love  could  raise  to  let  fall 
again  upon  the  rapture  of  wedded  bliss.  Veronique' s  lips, 
faultless  in  their  curves,  seemed  to  have  been  painted  scarlet, 
so  richly  were  they  colored  by  the  pure  glow  of  the  blood. 
Her  chin  and  the  lower  part  of  her  face  were  a  little  full,  in 
the  sense  that  painters  give  to  the  world,  and  this  heaviness 
of  contour  is,  by  the  unalterable  laws  of  physiognomy,  a  cer- 
tain sign  of  a  capacity  for  almost  morbid  violence  of  passion. 
Her  finely-moulded  but  almost  imperious  brow  was  crowned 
by  a  glorious  diadem  of  thick  abundant  hair ;  the  gold  had 
deepened  to  a  chestnut  tint. 

From  her  sixteenth  year  till  the  day  of  her  marriage 
Veronique's  demeanor  was  thoughtful  and  full  of  melancholy. 
In  an  existence  so  lonely  she  fell,  as  solitary  souls  are  wont, 
to  watching  the  grand  spectacle  of  the  life  within,  the  pro- 
gress of  her  thoughts,  the  ever-changing  phantasmagoria  of 
mental  visions,  the  yearnings  kindled  by  her  pure  life.  Those 
who  passed  along  the  Rue  de  la  Cite  on  sunny  days  had  only 
to  look  up  to  see  the  Sauviats'  girl  sitting  at  her  window  with 


16  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

a  bit  of  sewing  or  embroidery  in  her  hand,  drawing  the 
needle  in  and  out  with  a  somewhat  dreamy  air.  Her  head 
stood  out  in  sharp  contrast  against  its  background  among  the 
flowers  which  gave  a  touch  of  poetry  to  the  prosaic,  cracked, 
brown  window-sill,  and  the  small  leaded  panes  of  her  case- 
ment. At  times  a  reflected  glow  from  the  red  damask  cur- 
tains added  to  the  effect  of  the  face  so  brightly  colored 
already ;  it  looked  like  some  rosy-red  flower  above  the  little 
skyey  garden,  which  she  tended  so  carefully  upon  the  ledge. 
So  the  quaint  old  house  contained  something  still  more 
quaint — a  portrait  of  a  young  girl,  worthy  of  Mieris,  Van 
Ostade,  Terburg,  or  Gerard  Dow,  framed  in  one  of  the  old, 
worn,  and  blackened,  and  almost  ruinous  windows  which 
Dutch  artists  loved  to  paint.  If  a  stranger  happened  to 
glance  up  at  the  second  floor,  and  stand  agape  with  wonder  at 
its  construction,  old  Sauviat  below  would  thrust  out  his  head 
till  he  could  look  up  the  face  of  the  overhanging  story.  He 
was  sure  to  see  Veronique  there  at  the  window.  Then  he 
would  go  in  again,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  say  to  his  wife  in 
the  patois  of  Auvergne : 

"Hullo,  old  woman,  there  is  some  one  admiring  your 
daughter !  " 

In  1820  an  event  occurred  in  V^ronique's  simple  and  un- 
eventful life.  It  was  a  little  thing,  which  would  have  exer- 
cised no  influence  upon  another  girl,  but  destined  to  effect  a 
fatal  influence  on  V6ronique's  future  life.  On  the  day  of  a  sup- 
pressed church  festival,  a  working-day  for  the  rest  of  the  town, 
the  Sauviats  shut  their  shop  and  went  first  to  mass  and  then 
for  a  walk.  On  their  way  into  the  country  they  passed  by 
a  bookseller's  shop,  and  among  the  books  displayed  outside 
V6ronique  saw  one  called  Paul  et  Virginie.  The  fancy  took 
her  to  buy  it  for  the  sake  of  the  engraving  ;  her  father  paid 
five  francs  for  the  fatal  volume,  and  slipped  it  into  the  vast 
pocket  of  his  overcoat. 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  show  it  to  M.  le  Vicaire  ? " 


VERONIQUE.  17 

asked  the  mother ;  for  her  any  printed  book  was  something 
of  an  abracadabra,  which  might  or  might  not  be  for  evil. 

"Yes,  I  thought  I  would,"  Veronique  answered  simply. 

She  spent  that  night  in  reading  the  book,  one  of  the  most 
touching  romances  in  the  French  language.  The  love  scenes, 
half-biblical,  and  worthy  of  the  early  ages  of  the  world, 
wrought  havoc  in  Veronique's  heart.  A  hand,  whether  dia- 
bolical or  divine,  had  raised  for  her  the  veil  which  hitherto 
had  covered  nature.  On  the  morrow  the  little  Virgin  within 
the  beautiful  girl  thought  her  flowers  fairer  than  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  day  before  ;  she  understood  their  symbolical  lan- 
guage, she  gazed  up  at  the  blue  sky  with  exaltation,  causeless 
tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

In  every  woman's  life  there  comes  a  moment  when  she 
understands  her  destiny,  or  her  organization,  hitherto  mute, 
speaks  with  authority.  It  is  not  always  a  man  singled  out  by 
an  involuntary  and  stolen  glance  who  reveals  the  possession 
of  a  sixth  sense,  hitherto  dormant ;  more  frequently  it  is  some 
sight  that  comes  with  the  force  of  a  surprise,  a  landscape,  a 
page  of  a  book,  some  day  of  high  pomp,  some  ceremony  of 
the  Church  ;  the  scent  of  growing  flowers,  the  delicate  bright- 
ness of  a  misty  morning,  the  intimate  sweetness  of  divine 
music — and  something  suddenly  stirs  in  body  or  soul.  For 
the  lonely  child,  a  prisoner  in  the  dark  house,  brought  up  by 
parents  almost  as  rough  and  simple  as  peasants ;  for  the  girl 
who  had  never  heard  an  improper  word,  whose  innocent  mind 
had  never  received  the  slightest  taint  of  evil ;  for  the  angelic 
pupil  of  Sister  Martha  and  of  the  good  curate  of  Saint-Etienne, 
the  revelation  of  love  came  through  a  charming  book  from  the 
hand  of  genius.  No  peril  would  have  lurked  in  it  for  any 
other,  but  for  her  an  obscene  work  would  have  been  less  dan- 
gerous. Corruption  is  relative.  There  are  lofty  and  virginal 
natures  which  a  single  thought  suffices  to  corrupt,  a  thought 
which  works  the  more  ruin  because  the  necessity  of  combating 
it  is  not  foreseen. 
2 


18  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

The  next  clay  Veronique  showed  her  book  to  the  good 
priest,  who  approved  the  purchase  of  a  work  so  widely  known 
for  its  childlike  innocence  and  purity.  But  the  heat  of  the 
tropics,  the  beauty  of  the  land  described  in  Paul  et  Virginie, 
the  almost  childish  innocence  of  a  love  scarcely  of  this  earth, 
had  wrought  upon  Veronique's  imagination.  She  was  capti- 
vated by  the  noble  and  sweet  personality  of  the  author,  and 
carried  away  towards  the  cult  of  the  ideal,  that  fatal  religion. 
She  dreamed  of  a  lover,  a  young  man  like  Paul,  and  brooded 
over  soft  imaginings  of  that  life  of  lovers  in  some  fragrant 
island.  Below  Limoges,  and  almost  opposite  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Martial,  there  is  a  little  island  in  the  Vienne ;  this,  in 
her  childish  fancy,  Veronique  called  the  Isle  of  France,  and, 
filled  with  the  fantastic  creations  of  a  young  girl's  dreams, 
vague  shadows  endowed  with  the  dreamer's  own  perfections. 

She  sat  more  than  ever  in  the  window  in  those  days,  and 
watched  the  workmen  as  they  came  and  went.  Her  parents' 
humble  position  forbade  her  to  think  of  any  one  but  an  arti- 
san ;  yet,  accustomed  as  she  doubtless  was  to  the  idea  of 
becoming  a  workingman's  wife,  she  was  conscious  of  an  in- 
stinctive refinement  which  shrank  from  anything  rough  or 
coarse.  So  she  began  to  weave  for  herself  a  romance  such  as 
most  girls  weave  in  their  secret  hearts  for  themselves  alone. 
With  the  enthusiasm  which  might  be  expected  of  a  refined 
and  girlish  imagination,  she  seized  on  the  attractive  idea  of 
ennobling  one  of  these  workingmen,  of  raising  him  to  the 
level  of  her  dreams.  She  made  (who  knows  ?)  a  Paul  of  some 
young  man  whose  face  she  saw  in  the  street,  simply  that  she 
might  attach  her  wild  fancies  to  some  human  creature,  as  the 
overcharged  atmosphere  of  a  winter  day  deposits  dew  on  the 
branches  of  a  tree  by  the  wayside,  for  the  frost  to  transform 
into  magical  crystals.  How  should  she  escape  a  fall  into  the 
depths?  for  if  she  often  seemed  to  return  to  earth  from  far-off 
heights  with  a  reflected  glory  about  her  brows,  yet  oftener  she 
appeared  to  bring  with  her  flowers  gathered  on  the  brink  of  a 


Vi:ROMIQUE.  19 

torrent-stream  which  she  had  followed  down  into  tlie  abyss. 
On  warm  evenings  she  asked  her  old  father  to  walk  out  with 
her,  and  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  a  stroll  by  the  Vienne. 
She  went  into  ecstasy  at  every  step  over  the  beauty  of  the  sky 
and  land,  over  the  red  glories  of  the  sunset,  or  the  joyous 
freshness  of  dewy  mornings,  and  the  sense  of  these  things,  the 
poetry  of  nature,  passed  into  her  soul. 

She  curled  and  waved  the  hair  which  she  used  to  wear  in 
simple  plaits  about  her  head  ;  she  thought  more  about  her 
dress.  The  young,  wild  vine  which  had  grown  as  its  nature 
prompted  about  the  old  elm  tree  was  transplanted  and  trimmed 
and  pruned,  and  grew  upon  a  dainty  green  trellis. 

One  evening  in  December,  1822,  when  Sauviat  (now  seventy 
years  old)  had  returned  from  a  journey  to  Paris,  the  curate 
dropped  in,  and  after  a  few  commonplaces — 

"You  must  think  of  marrying  your  daughter,  Sauviat," 
said  the  priest.  "  At  your  age  you  should  no  longer  delay 
the  fulfillment  of  an  important  duty." 

"  Why,  has  Veronique  a  mind  to  be  married  ?  "  asked  the 
amazed  old  man. 

"As  you  please,  father,"  the  girl  answered,  lowering  her 
eyes. 

"  We  will  marry  her,"  cried  portly  Mother  Sauviat,  smiling 
as  she  spoke. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  something  about  this  before  I  left 
home,  mother?  "  Sauviat  asked.  "  I  shall  have  to  go  back  to 
Paris  again." 

In  Jerome-Baptiste  Sauviat's  eyes  plenty  of  money  appeared 
to  be  synonymous  with  happiness.  He  had  always  regarded 
love  and  marriage  in  their  purely  physical  and  practical  as- 
pects ;  marriage  was  a  means  of  transmitting  his  property 
(he  being  no  more)  to  another  self;  so  he  vowed  that  Veron- 
ique should  marry  a  well-to-do  man.  Indeed,  for  a  long  while 
past  this  had  become  a  fixed  idea  with  him.  His  neighbor 
the  hatter,  who  was  retiring  from  business,  and  had  an  income 


20  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

of  two  thousand  livres  a  year,  had  already  asked  for  Veronique 
for  his  son  and  successor  (for  Veronique  was  spoken  of  in  the 
quarter  as  a  good  girl  of  exemplary  life),  and  had  been  politely 
refused.  Sauviat  had  not  so  much  as  mentioned  this  to  Ver- 
onique. 

The  curate  was  Veronique's  director,  and  a  great  man  in 
the  Sauviats'  eyes ;  so  the  day  after  he  had  spoken  of  Veron- 
ique's marriage  as  a  necessity,  old  Sauviat  shaved  himself,  put 
on  his  Sunday  clothes,  and  went  out.  He  said  not  a  word  to 
his  wife  and  daughter,  but  the  women  knew  that  the  old  man 
had  gone  out  to  find  a  son-in-law.    Sauviat  went  to  M.  Graslin. 

M.  Graslin,  a  rich  banker  of  Limoges,  had  left  his  native 
Auvergne,  like  Sauviat  himself,  without  a  sou  in  his  pocket. 
He  had  begun  life  as  a  porter  in  a  banker's  service,  and  from 
that  position  had  made  his  way,  like  many  another  capitalist, 
partly  by  thrift,  partly  by  sheer  luck.  A  cashier  at  five-and- 
twenty,  and  at  five-and  thirty  a  partner  in  the  firm  of  Perret 
&  Grossetdte,  he  at  last  bought  out  the  original  partners,  and 
became  sole  owner  of  the  bank.  His  two  colleagues  went  to 
live  in  the  country,  leaving  their  capital  in  his  hands  at  a  low 
rate  of  interest.  Pierre  Graslin,  at  the  age  of  forty-seven, 
was  believed  to  possess  six  hundred  thousand  francs  at  the 
least.  His  reputation  for  riches  had  recently  increased,  and 
the  whole  department  had  applauded  his  free-handedness 
when  he  built  a  house  for  himself  in  the  new  quarter  of  the 
Place  des  Arbres,  which  adds  not  a  little  to  the  appearance 
of  Limoges.  It  was  a  handsome  house,  on  the  plan  of  align- 
ment, with  a  facade  like  a  neighboring  public  building;  but 
though  the  mansion  had  been  finished  for  six  months,  Pierre 
Graslin  hesitated  to  furnish  it.  His  house  had  cost  him  so 
dear,  that  at  the  thought  of  living  in  it  he  drew  back.  Self- 
love,  it  may  be,  had  enticed  him  to  exceed  the  limits  he  had 
prudently  observed  all  his  life  long ;  he  thought,  moreover, 
with  the  plain  sense  of  a  man  of  business,  that  it  was  only 
right  that  the  inside  of  his  house  should  be  in  keeping  with 


V&RONIQUE.  21 

the  programme  adopted  with  the  facade.  The  plate  and  fur- 
niture and  accessories  needed  for  the  housekeeping  in  such  a 
mansion  would  cost  more,  according  to  his  computations, 
than  the  actual  outlay  on  the  building.  So,  in  spite  of  the 
town  gossip,  the  broad  grins  of  commercial  circles,  and  the 
charitable  surmises  of  his  neighbors,  Pierre  Graslin  stayed 
where  he  was  on  the  damp  and  dirty  ground-floor  dwelling  in 
the  Rue  Montantmanigne,  where  his  fortune  had  been  made, 
and  the  great  house  stood  empty.  People  might  talk,  but 
Graslin  was  happy  in  the  approbation  of  his  two  old  sleeping 
partners,  who  praised  him  for  displaying  such  uncommon 
strength  of  mind. 

Such  a  fortune  and  such  a  life  as  Graslin's  is  sure  to  excite 
plentiful  covetousness  in  a  country  town.  During  the  past 
ten  years  more  than  one  proposition  of  marriage  had  been 
skillfully  insinuated.  But  the  estate  of  a  bachelor  was  emi- 
nently suited  to  a  man  who  worked  from  morning  to  night, 
overwhelmed  with  business,  and  wearied  by  his  daily  round,  a 
man  as  keen  after  money  as  a  sportsman  after  game ;  so  Graslin 
had  fallen  into  none  of  the  snares  set  for  him  by  ambitious 
mothers  who  coveted  a  brilliant  position  for  their  daughters. 
Graslin,  the  Sauviat  of  a  somewhat  higher  social  sphere,  did 
not  spend  two  francs  a  day  upon  himself,  and  dressed  no 
better  than  his  second  clerk.  His  whole  staff  consisted  of  a 
couple  of  clerks  and  an  office  boy,  though  he  went  through 
an  amount  of  business  which  might  fairly  be  called  immense, 
so  multitudinous  were  its  ramifications.  One  of  the  clerks 
saw  to  the  correspondence,  the  other  kept  the  books;  and 
for  the  rest  Pierre  Graslin  was  both  the  soul  and  body  of  his 
business.  He  chose  his  clerks  from  his  family  circle ;  they 
were  of  his  own  stamp,  trustworthy,  intelligent,  and  accus- 
tomed to  work.  As  for  the  office  boy,  he  led  the  life  of  a 
dray  horse. 

Graslin  rose  all  the  year  round  before  five  in  the  morning, 
and  was  never  in  bed  till  eleven  o'clock  at  night.     His  char- 


22  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

woman,  an  old  Auvergnate,  who  came  in  to  do  the  housework 
and  to  cook  his  meals,  had  strict  orders  never  to  exceed  the 
sum  of  three  francs  for  the  total  daily  expense  of  the  house- 
hold. The  brown  earthenware,  the  strong  coarse  tablecloths 
and  sheets,  were  in  keeping  with  the  manners  and  customs  of 
an  establishment  in  which  the  porter  was  the  man  of  all  work, 
and  the  clerks  made  their  own  beds.  The  blackened  deal 
tables,  the  ragged  straw-bottomed  chairs  with  the  holes 
through  tlie  centre,  the  pigeon-hole  writing-desks  and  ram- 
shackle bedsteads,  in  fact,  all  the  furniture  of  the  counting- 
house  and  the  three  rooms  above  it,  would  not  have  brought 
three  thousand  francs,  even  if  the  safe  had  been  included,  a 
colossal  solid  iron  structure  built  into  the  wall  itself,  before 
which  the  porter  nightly  slept  with  a  couple  of  dogs  at  his 
feet.  It  had  been  a  legacy  from  the  old  firm  to  the  present 
one. 

Graslin  was  not  often  seen  in  society,  where  a  great  deal 
was  heard  about  him.  He  dined  with  the  receiver-general 
(a  business  connection)  two  or  three  times  a  year,  and  he  had 
been  known  to  take  a  meal  at  the  prefecture ;  for,  to  his  own 
intense  disgust,  he  had  been  nominated  a  member  of  the 
general  council  of  the  department.  "  He  wasted  his  time 
there,"  he  said.  Occasionally,  when  he  had  concluded  a 
bargain  with  a  business  acquaintance,  he  was  detained  to  lunch 
or  dinner ;  and,  lastly,  he  was  sometimes  compelled  to  call 
upon  his  old  partners,  who  spent  the  winter  in  Limoges.  So 
slight  was  the  hold  which  social  relations  had  upon  him  that 
at  twenty-five  years  of  age  Graslin  had  not  so  much  as  offered 
a  glass  of  water  to  any  creature. 

People  used  to  say,  "  That  is  M.  Graslin  !  "  when  he  passed 
along  the  street,  which  is  to  say,  "  There  is  a  man  who  came 
to  Limoges  without  a  farthing,  and  has  made  an  immense 
amount  of  money."  The  Auvergnat  banker  became  a  kind 
of  pattern  and  example  held  up  by  fathers  of  families  to  their 
offspring — and  an  epigram  which  more  than  one  wife  cast  in 


V&RONIQUE.  23 

her  husband's  teeth.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  the  motives  which 
induced  this  principal  pivot  in  the  financial  machinery  of 
Limoges  to  repel  the  matrimonial  advances  so  perseveringly 
made  to  him.  The  daughters  of  Messieurs  Perret  and  Gros- 
setete  had  been  married  before  Graslin  was  in  a  position  to 
ask  for  them  ;  but  as  each  of  these  ladies  had  daughters  in 
the  school-room,  people  let  Graslin  alone  at  last,  taking  it  for 
granted  that  either  old  Perret  or  Grossetete  the  shrewd  had 
arranged  a  match  to  be  carried  out  some  future  day,  when 
Graslin  should  be  bridegroom  to  one  of  the  granddaughters. 

Sauviat  had  watched  his  fellow-countryman's  rise  and  prog- 
ress more  closely  than  any  one.  He  had  known  Graslin  ever 
since  he  came  to  Limoges,  but  their  relative  positions  had 
changed  so  much  (in  appearance  at  any  rate)  that  the  friend- 
ship became  an  acquaintance,  renewed  only  at  long  intervals. 
Still,  in  his  quality  of  fellow-countryman,  Graslin  was  never 
above  having  a  chat  with  Sauviat  in  the  Auvergne  dialect  if 
the  two  happened  to  meet,  and  in  their  own  language  they 
dropped  the  formal  "you"  for  the  more  familiar  "thee" 
and  "  thou." 

In  1823,  when  the  youngest  of  the  brothers  Grosset&te,  the 
Receiver-General  of  Bourges,  married  his  daughter  to  the 
youngest  son  of  the  Comte  de  Fontaine,  Sauviat  saw  that  the 
Grossetgtes  had  no  mind  to  take  Graslin  into  their  family. 

After  a  conference  with  the  banker,  old  Sauviat  returned  in 
high  glee  to  dine  in  his  daughter's  room. 

"  Veronique  will  be  Madame  Graslin,"  he  told  the  two 
women. 

"  Madame  Graslin  ./ "  cried  Mother  Sauviat,  in  amazement. 

"Is  it  possible?"  asked  Veronique.  She  did  not  know 
Graslin  by  sight,  but  the  name  produced  much  such  an  effect 
on  her  imagination  as  the  word  Rothschild  upon  a  Parisian 
shop-girl. 

"Yes.  It  is  settled,"  old  Sauviat  continued  solemnly. 
"  Graslin  will  furnish  his  house  very  grandly ;  he  will  have  the 


24  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON, 

finest  carriage  from  Paris  that  money  can  buy  for  our  daughter, 
and  the  best  pair  of  horses  in  Limousin.  He  will  buy  an 
estate  worth  five  hundred  thousand  francs  for  her,  and  settle 
the  house  on  her  besides.  In  short,  Veronique  will  be  the  first 
lady  in  Limoges,  and  the  richest  in  the  department,  and  can 
do  just  as  she  likes  with  Graslin." 

Veronique' s  boundless  affection  for  her  father  and  mother, 
her  bringing-up,  her  religious  training,  her  utter  ignorance, 
prevented  her  from  raising  a  single  objection;  it  did  not  so 
much  as  occur  to  her  that  she  had  been  disposed  of  without 
her  own  consent.  The  next  day  Sauviat  set  out  for  Paris,  and 
was  away  for  about  a  week. 

Pierre  Graslin,  as  you  may  imagine,  was  no  great  talker ;  he 
went  straight  to  the  point,  and  acted  promptly.  A  thing 
determined  upon  was  a  thing  done  at  once.  So  in  February, 
1822,  a  strange  piece  of  news  surprised  Limoges  like  a  sudden 
thunderclap.  Graslin's  great  house  was  being  handsomely 
furnished.  Heavy  wagon-loads  from  Paris  arrived  daily  to  be 
unpacked  in  the  courtyard.  Rumors  flew  about  the  town 
concerning  the  good  taste  displayed  in  the  beautiful  furniture, 
modern  and  antique.  A  magnificent  service  of  plate  came 
down  from  Odiot's  by  the  mail ;  and  (actually)  three  car- 
riages ! — a  caleche,  a  brougham,  and  a  cabriolet — arrived  care- 
fully packed  in  straw  as  if  they  had  been  jewels. 

"  M.  Graslin  is  going  to  be  married  !  "  The  words  passed 
from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  in  the  course  of  a  single  evening 
the  news  filtered  through  the  drawing-rooms  of  the  Limousin 
aristocracy  to  the  back  parlors  and  shops  in  the  suburbs,  till 
all  Limoges,  in  fact,  had  heard  it.  But  whom  was  he  going  to 
marry  ?  Nobody  could  answer  the  question.  There  was  a 
mystery  in  Limoges. 

As  soon  as  Sauviat  came  back  from  Paris,  Graslin  made  his 
first  nocturnal  visit,  at  half-past  nine  o'clock.  Veronique 
knew  that  he  was  coming.  She  wore  her  blue-silk  gown,  cut 
square  at  the  throat,  and  a  wide  collar  of  cambric  with  a 


VERONIQUE.  25 

deep  hem.  Her  hair  she  had  simply  parted  into  two  bandeaux, 
waved  and  gathered  into  a  Grecian  knot  at  the  back  of  her 
head.  She  was  sitting  in  a  tapestry-covered  chair  near  the  fire- 
side, where  her  mother  occupied  a  great  armchair  with  a 
carved  back  and  crimson  velvet  cushions,  a  bit  of  salvage 
from  some  ruined  chateau.  A  blazing  fire  burned  on  the 
hearth.  Upon  the  mantel-shelf,  on  either  side  of  an  old 
clock  (whose  value  the  Sauviats  certainly  did  not  know), 
stood  two  old-fashioned  sconces ;  six  wax-candles  in  the 
sockets  among  the  brazen  vine-stems  shed  their  light  on  the 
brown  chamber,  and  on  V^ronique  in  her  bloom.  The  old 
mother  had  put  on  her  best  dress. 

In  the  midst  of  the  silence  that  reigned  in  the  streets  at 
that  silent  hour,  with  the  dimly-lit  staircase  as  a  background, 
Graslin  appeared  for  the  first  time  before  Veronique — the  shy 
childish  girl  whose  head  was  still  full  of  sweet  fancies  of  love 
derived  from  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre's  book.  Graslin  was 
short  and  thin.  His  thick  black  hair  stood  up  straight  on  his 
forehead  like  bristles  in  a  bush,  in  startling  contrast  with  a 
face  red  as  a  drunkard's,  and  covered  with  suppurating  or 
bleeding  pustules.  The  eruption  was  neither  scrofula  nor 
leprosy,  it  was  simply  a  result  of  an  overheated  condition  of 
the  blood;  unflagging  toil,  anxiety,  fanatical  application  to 
business,  late  hours,  a  life  steady  and  sober  to  the  point  of 
abstemiousness,  had  induced  a  complaint  which  seemed  to  be 
related  to  both  diseases.  In  spite  of  partners,  clerks,  and 
doctors,  the  banker  had  never  brought  himself  to  submit  to  a 
regimen  which  might  have  alleviated  the  symptoms  or  cured 
an  evil,  trifling  at  first,  which  was  daily  aggravated  by  neglect 
as  time  went  on.  He  wished  to  be  rid  of  it,  and  sometimes 
for  a  few  days  would  take  the  baths  and  swallow  the  doses 
prescribed  ;  but  the  round  of  business  carried  him  away,  and 
he  forgot  to  take  care  of  himself.  Now  and  again  he  would 
talk  of  going  away  for  a  short  holiday,  and  trying  the  waters 
somewhere  or  other  for  a  cure,  but  where  is  the  man  in  hot 


26  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

pursuit  of  millions  who  has  been  known  to  stop?  In  this 
flushed  countenance  gleamed  two  gray  eyes,  the  iris  speckled 
with  brown  dots  and  streaked  with  fine  green  threads  radi- 
ating from  the  pupil — two  covetous  eyes,  piercing  eyes  that 
went  to  the  depths  of  the  heart,  implacable  eyes  in  which 
you  read  resolution  and  integrity  and  business  faculty.  A 
snub  nose,  thick  blubber  lips,  a  prominent  rounded  forehead, 
grinning  cheek-bones,  coarse  ears  corroded  by  the  sour  humors 
of  the  blood — altogether  Graslin  looked  like  an  antique  satyr 
— a  satyr  tricked  out  in  a  great  coat,  a  black  satin  waistcoat, 
and  a  white  neckcloth  knotted  about  his  neck.  The  strong 
muscular  shoulders,  which  had  once  carried  heavy  burdens, 
stooped  somewhat  already ;  the  thin  legs,  which  seemed  to  be 
imperfectly  jointed  with  the  short  thighs,  trembled  beneath 
the  weight  of  that  over-developed  torso.  The  bony  fingers 
covered  with  hair  were  like  claws,  as  is  often  the  case  with 
those  who  tell  gold  all  day  long.  Two  parallel  lines  furrowed 
the  face  from  the  cheek-bones  to  the  mouth — an  unerring  sign 
that  here  was  a  man  whose  whole  soul  was  taken  up  with 
material  interests ;  while  the  eyebrows  sloped  up  towards  the 
temples  in  a  manner  which  indicated  a  habit  of  swift  decision. 
Grim  and  hard  though  the  mouth  looked,  there  was  something 
there  that  suggested  an  underlying  kindliness,  real  good- 
heartedness,  not  called  forth  in  a  life  of  money-getting,  and 
choked,  it  may  be,  by  cares  of  this  world,  but  which  might 
revive  at  contact  with  a  woman. 

At  the  sight  of  this  apparition,  something  clutched  cruelly 
at  Veronique's  heart.  Everything  grew  dark  before  her  eyes. 
She  thought  she  cried  out,  but  in  reality  she  sat  still,  mute, 
staring  with  fixed  eyes. 

"  Veronique,"  said  old  Sauviat,  "  this  is  M.  Graslin." 

Veronique  rose  to  her  feet  and  bowed,  then  she  sank  down 

into  her  chair  again,  and  her  eyes  sought  her  mother.     But 

La  Sauviat  was  smiling  at  the  millionaire,  looking  so  happy, 

so  very  happy,  that  the  poor  child  gathered  courage  to  hide 


VERONIQUE.  27 

her  violent  feeling  of  repulsion  and  the  shock  she  had  re- 
ceived. In  the  midst  of  the  conversation  which  followed, 
something  was  said  about  Graslin's  health.  The  banker 
looked  naively  at  himself  in  the  beveled  mirror  framed  in 
ebony. 

•'I  am  not  handsome,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  and  he  ex- 
plained that  the  redness  of  his  face  was  due  to  his  busy  life, 
and  told  them  how  he  had  disobeyed  his  doctor's  orders.  He 
hoped  that  as  soon  as  he  had  a  woman  to  look  after  him  and 
his  household,  a  wife  who  would  take  more  care  of  him  than 
he  took  of  himself,  he  should  look  quite  a  different  man. 

**  As  if  anybody  married  a  man  for  his  looks,  mate  !  "  cried 
the  dealer  in  old  iron,  slapping  his  fellow-countryman  on  the 
thigh. 

Graslin's  explanation  appealed  to  instinctive  feelings  which 
more  or  less  fill  every  woman's  heart.  Veronique  bethought 
herself  of  her  own  face,  marred  by  a  hideous  disease,  and  in 
her  Christian  humility  she  thought  better  of  her  first  impres- 
sion. Just  then  some  one  whistled  in  the  street  outside, 
Graslin  went  down,  followed  by  Sauviat,  who  felt  uneasy. 
Both  men  soon  returned.  The  porter  had  brought  the  first 
bouquet  of  flowers,  which  had  been  in  readiness  for  the  occa- 
sion. At  the  reappearance  of  the  banker  with  this  stack  of 
exotic  blossoms,  which  he  offered  to  his  future  bride,  Ver- 
onique's  feelings  were  very  different  from  those  with  which 
she  had  first  seen  Graslin  himself.  The  room  was  filled  with 
the  sweet  scent,  for  Veronique  it  was  a  realization  of  her  day- 
dreams of  the  tropics.  She  had  never  seen  white  camellias 
before,  had  never  known  the  scent  of  the  Alpine  cytisus,  the 
exquisite  fragrance  of  the  citronella,  the  jessamine  of  the 
Azores,  the  verbena  and  musk-rose,  and  their  sweetness,  like 
a  melody  in  perfume,  falling  on  her  senses  stirred  a  vague 
tenderness  in  her  heart. 

Graslin  left  Veronique  under  the  spell  of  that  emotion  ;  but 
almost  nightly  after  Sauviat  returned  home  the  banker  waited 


28  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

till  all  Limoges  was  asleep,  and  then  slunk  along  under  the 
walls  to  the  house  where  the  dealer  in  old  iron  lived.  He 
used  to  tap  softly  on  the  shutters,  the  dog  did  not  bark,  the 
old  man  came  down  and  opened  the  door  to  his  fellow-coun- 
tryman, and  Graslin  would  spend  a  couple  of  hours  in  the 
brown  room  where  Veronique  sat,  and  Mother  Sauviat  would 
serve  him  up  an  Auvergnat  supper.  The  uncouth  lover  never 
came  without  a  bouquet  for  Veronique,  rare  flowers  only  to  be 
procured  in  M.  Grossetete's  hothouse,  M.  Grossetete  being  the 
only  person  in  Limoges  in  the  secret  of  the  marriage.  The 
porter  went  after  dark  to  bring  the  bouquet,  which  old  Gros- 
setete always  gathered  himself. 

During  those  two  months  Graslin  went  about  fifty  times  to 
the  house,  and  never  without  some  handsome  present,  rings, 
a  gold  watch,  a  chain,  a  dressing-case,  or  the  like ;  amazing 
lavishness  on  his  part,  which,  however,  is  easily  explained. 

Veronique  would  bring  him  almost  the  whole  of  her  father's 
fortune — she  would  have  seven  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
francs.  The  old  man  kept  for  himself  an  income  of  eight 
thousand  francs,  an  old  investment  in  the  Funds,  made  when 
he  was  in  imminent  danger  of  losing  his  head  on  the  scafiFold. 
In  those  days  he  had  put  sixty  thousand  francs  in  assignats 
(the  half  of  his  fortune)  into  government  stock.  It  was 
Br^zac  who  advised  the  investment,  and  dissuaded  him  after- 
wards when  he  thought  of  selling  out ;  it  was  Brezac,  too, 
who  in  the  same  emergency  had  been  a  faithful  trustee  for  the 
rest  of  his  fortune — the  vast  sum  of  seven  hundred  gold  louis, 
with  which  Sauviat  began  to  speculate  as  soon  as  he  made 
good  his  escape  from  prison.  In  thirty  years'  time  each  of 
those  gold  louis  had  been  transmuted  into  a  bill  for  a  thousand 
francs,  thanks  partly  to  the  interest  on  the  assignats,  partly  to 
the  money  which  fell  in  at  the  time  of  Champagnac's  death, 
partly  to  trading  gains  in  the  business,  and  the  money  stand- 
ing at  compound  interest  in  Br^zac's  concern.  Brezac  had 
done  honestly  by  Sauviat,  as  Auvergnat  does  by  Auvergnat. 


VERONIQUE.  29 

And  so  whenever  Sauviat  went  to  take  a  look  at  the  front  of 
Graslin's  great  house — 

"  Veronique  shall  live  in  that  palace  !  "  he  said  to  himself. 

He  knew  that  there  was  not  another  girl  in  Limousin  who 
would  have  seven  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  paid  down 
on  her  marriage-day,  beside  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
of  expectations.  Graslin,  the  son-in-law  of  his  choice,  must 
therefore  inevitably  marry  Veronique.  So  every  evening  Ver- 
onique received  a  bouquet,  which  daily  made  her  little  sitting- 
room  bright  with  flowers,  a  bouquet  carefully  kept  out  of  sight 
of  the  neighbors.  She  admired  the  beautiful  jewels,  the 
rubies,  pearls  and  diamonds,  the  bracelets,  dear  to  all  daugh- 
ters of  Eve,  and  thought  herself  less  ugly  thus  adorned.  She 
saw  her  mother  happy  over  this  marriage,  and  she  herself  had 
no  standard  of  comparison ;  she  had  no  idea  what  marriage 
meant,  no  conception  of  its  duties;  and  finally  she  heard  the 
curate  of  Saint-Etienne  praising  Graslin  to  her,  in  his  solemn 
voice,  telling  her  that  this  was  an  honorable  man  with  whom  she 
would  lead  an  honorable  life.  So  Veronique  consented  to  receive 
M.  Graslin's  attentions.  In  a  lonely  and  monotonous  life  like 
hers,  let  a  single  person  present  himself  day  by  day,  and  before 
long  that  person  will  not  be  indifferent ;  for  either  an  aversion, 
confirmed  by  a  deeper  knowledge,  will  turn  to  hate,  and  the 
visitor's  presence  will  be  intolerable  ;  or  custom  stales  (so  to 
speak)  the  sight  of  physical  defects,  and  then  the  mind  begins 
to  look  for  compensations.  Curiosity  busies  itself  with  the 
face ;  from  some  cause  or  other  the  features  light  up,  there  is 
some  fleeting  gleam  of  beauty  there ;  and  at  last  the  nature, 
hidden  beneath  the  outward  form,  is  discovered.  In  short, 
first  impressions  once  overcome,  the  force  with  which  the  one 
soul  is  attracted  to  the  other  is  but  so  much  the  stronger, 
because  the  discovery  of  the  true  nature  of  the  other  is  all 
its  own.  So  love  invariably  begins.  Herein  lies  the  secret 
of  the  passionate  love  which  beautiful  persons  entertain  for 
others  who  are  not  beautiful  in  appearance ;  affection,  looking 


30  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

deeper  than  the  outward  form,  sees  the  form  no  longer,  but  a 
soul,  and  thenceforward  knows  nothing  else.  Moreover,  the 
beauty  so  necessary  in  a  woman  takes  in  a  man  such  a  strange 
character,  that  women's  opinions  differ  as  much  on  the  sub- 
ject of  a  man's  good  looks  as  men  about  the  beauty  of  a 
woman. 

After  much  meditation  and  many  struggles  with  herself, 
Veronique  allowed  the  banns  to  be  published,  and  all  Limoges 
rang  with  the  incredible  news.  Nobody  knew  the  secret — 
the  bride's  immense  dowry.  If  that  had  been  bruited  abroad, 
Veronique  might  have  chosen  her  husband,  but  perhaps  even 
so  would  have  been  mistaken.  It  was  a  love-match  on  Gras- 
lin's  side,  people  averred. 

Upholsterers  arrived  from  Paris  to  furnish  the  fine  house. 
The  banker  was  going  to  great  expense  over  it,  and  nothing 
else  was  talked  of  in  Limoges.  People  discussed  the  price  of 
the  chandeliers,  the  gilding  of  the  drawing-room,  the  mythi- 
cal subjects  of  the  timepieces  ;  and  there  were  well-informed 
folk  who  could  describe  the  flower-stands  and  the  porcelain 
stoves,  the  luxurious  novel  contrivances.  For  instance,  there 
was  an  aviary  built  above  the  ice-house  in  the  garden  of  the 
Hotel  Graslin  ;  all  Limoges  marveled  at  the  rare  birds  in  it — 
the  paroquets,  and  Chinese  pheasants,  and  strange  water- 
fowl, there  was  no  one  who  had  not  seen  them. 

M.  and  Mme.  Grosset&te,  old  people  much  looked  up  to  in 
Limoges,  called  several  times  upon  the  Sauviats,  Graslin 
accompanying  them.  Mme.  Grosset^te,  worthy  woman,  con- 
gratulated Veronique  on  the  fortunate  marriage  she  was  to 
make  ;  so  the  Church,  the  family,  and  the  world,  together 
with  every  trifling  circumstance,  combined  to  bring  this 
match  about. 

In  the  month  of  April  formal  invitations  were  sent  to  all 
Graslin's  circle  of  acquaintance.  At  eleven  o'clock  one  fine 
sunny  morning  a  caliche  and  a  brougham,  drawn  by  Limousin 
horses  in  English  harness  (old  Grossetete  had  superintended 


VERONIQUE.  81 

his  colleague's  stable),  arrived  before  the  poor  little  shop 
where  the  dealer  in  old  iron  lived ;  and  the  excited  quarter 
beheld  the  bridegroom's  sometime  partners  and  his  two 
clerks.  There  was  a  prodigious  sensation,  the  street  was  filled 
by  the  crowd  eager  to  see  the  Sauviats'  daughter.  The  most 
celebrated  hairdresser  in  Limoges  had  set  the  bride's  crown 
on  her  beautiful  hair  and  arranged  her  veil  of  priceless  Brus- 
sels lace  ;  but  Veronique's  dress  was  of  simple  white  muslin, 
A  sufficiently  imposing  assembly  of  the  most  distinguished 
women  of  Limoges  was  present  at  the  wedding  in  the  cathe- 
dral ;  the  bishop  himself,  knowing  the  piety  of  the  Sauviats, 
condescended  to  perform  the  marriage  ceremony.  People 
thought  the  bride  a  plain-looking  girl.  For  the  first  time  she 
entered  her  hotel,  and  went  from  surprise  to  surprise.  A  state 
dinner  preceded  the  ball,  to  which  Graslin  had  invited  almost 
all  Limoges.  The  dinner  given  to  the  bishop,  the  prefect, 
the  president  of  the  court  of  first  instance,  the  public  prose- 
cutor, the  mayor,  the  general,  and  to  Graslin's  sometime 
employers  and  their  wives  was  a  triumph  for  the  bride,  who, 
like  all  simple  and  unaffected  people,  proved  unexpectedly 
charming.  None  of  the  married  people  would  dance,  so  that 
Veronique  continued  to  do  the  honors  of  her  house,  and  won 
the  esteem  and  good  graces  of  most  of  her  new  acquaint- 
ances ;  asking  old  GrassetSte,  who  had  taken  a  great  kindness 
for  her,  for  information  about  her  guests,  and  so  avoiding 
blunders.  During  the  evening  the  two  retired  bankers  spread 
the  news  of  the  fortune,  immense  for  Limousin,  which  the 
parents  of  the  bride  had  given  her.  At  nine  o'clock  the 
dealer  in  old  iron  went  home  to  bed,  leaving  his  wife  to  pre- 
side at  the  ceremony  of  undressing  the  bride.  It  was  said  in 
the  town  that  Mme.  Graslin  was  plain  but  well  shaped. 

Old  Sauviat  sold  his  business  and  his  house  in  the  town, 
and  bought  a  cottage  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Vienne,  between 
Limoges  and  Le  Cluzeau,  and  ten  minutes'  walk  from  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Martial.      Here   he  meant  that  he  and  his 


32  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

wife  should  end  their  days  in  peace.  The  two  old  people  had 
rooms  in  Graslin's  hotel,  and  dined  there  once  or  twice  a  week 
with  their  daughter,  whose  walks  usually  took  the  direction 
of  their  house. 

The  retired  dealer  in  old  iron  had  nothing  to  do,  and  nearly 
died  of  leisure.  Luckily  for  him,  his  son-in-law  found  him 
some  occupation.  In  1823  the  banker  found  himself  with  a 
porcelain  factory  on  his  hands.  He  had  lent  large  sums  to 
the  manufacturers,  which  they  were  unable  to  repay,  so  he  had 
taken  over  the  business  to  recoup  himself.  In  this  concern 
he  invested  more  capital,  and  by  this  means,  and  by  his  exten- 
sive business  connections,  made  of  it  one  of  the  largest  facto- 
ries in  Limoges ;  so  that  when  he  sold  it  in  three  years  after 
he  took  it  over,  he  made  a  large  profit  on  the  transaction. 
He  made  his  father-in-law  the  manager  of  this  factory,  situated 
in  the  very  same  quarter  of  Saint-Martial  where  his  house 
stood  ;  and  in  spite  of  Sauviat's  seventy-two  years,  he  had 
done  not  a  little  in  bringing  about  the  prosperity  of  a  busi- 
ness in  which  he  grew  quite  young  again.  The  plan  had  its 
advantages  likewise  for  Graslin ;  but  for  old  Sauviat,  who 
threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  porcelain  factory,  he 
would  perhaps  have  been  obliged  to  take  a  clerk  into  part- 
nership and  lose  part  of  the  profits,  which  he  now  received 
in  full ;  but  as  it  was,  he  could  look  after  his  own  affairs  in 
the  town,  and  feel  his  mind  at  ease  as  to  the  capital  invested  in 
the  porcelain  works. 

In  1827  Sauviat  met  with  an  accident,  which  ended  in  his 
death.  He  was  busy  with  the  stock-taking,  when  he  stumbled 
over  one  of  the  crates  in  which  the  china  was  packed,  grazing 
his  leg  slightly.  He  took  no  care  of  himself,  and  mortifica- 
tion set  in  ;  they  talked  of  amputation,  but  he  would  not  hear 
of  losing  his  leg,  and  so  he  died.  His  widow  made  over  about 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  the  amount  of  Sauviat's 
estate,  to  her  daughter  and  son-in-law,  Graslin  undertaking  to 
pay    her   two    hundred    francs  a    month,  an  amount  amply 


VERONIQUE.  83 

sufficient  for  her  needs.  She  persisted  in  living  on  withotit 
a  servant  in  the  little  cottage ;  keeping  her  point  with  the 
obstinacy  of  old  age  and  in  spite  of  her  daughter's  entreat- 
ies ',  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  went  almost  every  day  to 
the  Hotel  Graslin,  and  Veronique's  walks,  as  heretofore, 
usually  ended  at  her  mother's  house.  There  was  a  charm- 
ing view  from  the  windows  of  the  river  and  the  little  island 
in  the  Vienne,  which  Veronique  had  loved  in  the  old  days, 
and  called  her  Isle  of  France. 

The  story  of  the  Sauviats  has  been  anticipated  partly  to  save 
interruption  to  the  other  story  of  the  Graslins'  household,  partly 
because  it  serves  to  explain  some  of  the  reasons  of  the  retired 
life  which  Veronique  Graslin  led.  The  old  mother  foresaw 
how  much  her  child  might  one  day  be  made  to  suffer  through 
Graslin's  avarice  ;  for  long  she  held  out,  and  refused  to  give 
up  the  rest  of  her  fortune,  and  only  gave  way  when  Veron- 
ique insisted  upon  it.  Veronique  was  incapable  of  imagin- 
ing circumstances  in  which  a  wife  desires  to  have  the  control 
of  her  property,  and  acted  upon  a  generous  impulse ;  in  this 
way  she  meant  to  thank  Graslin  for  giving  her  back  her 
liberty. 

The  unaccustomed  splendors  of  Graslin's  marriage  had  been 
totally  at  variance  with  his  habits  and  nature.  The  great 
capitalist's  ideas  were  very  narrow.  Veronique  had  had  no 
opportunity  of  gauging  the  man  with  whom  she  must  spend  the 
rest  of  her  life.  During  those  fifty-five  evening  visits  Graslin 
had  shown  but  one  side  of  his  character — the  man  of  business, 
the  undaunted  worker  who  planned  and  carried  out  large 
undertakings,  the  capitalist  who  looked  at  public  affairs  with 
a  view  to  their  probable  effect  on  the  bank-rate  and  oppor- 
tunities of  money-making.  And,  under  the  influence  of  his 
father-in-law's  million,  Graslin  had  behaved  generously  in 
those  days,  though  even  then  his  lavish  expenditure  was 
made  to  gain  his  own  ends ;  he  was  drawn  into  expense  in 
the  springtide  days  of  his  marriage  partly  by  the  possession 
3 


84  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

of  the  great  house,  which  he  called  his  "Folly,"  the  house 
still  called  the  Hotel  Graslin  in  Limoges. 

As  he  had  the  horses,  the  caliche,  and  brougham,  it  was 
natural  to  make  use  of  them  to  pay  a  round  of  visits  on  his 
marriage,  and  to  go  to  the  dinner-parties  and  dances  given  in 
honor  of  the  bride  by  official  dignitaries  and  wealthy  houses. 
Acting  on  the  impulses  which  carried  him  out  of  his  ordinary 
sphere,  Graslin  was  **at  home"  to  callers  one  day  in  the 
week,  and  sent  to  Paris  for  a  cook.  For  about  a  year,  indeed, 
he  led  the  ordinary  life  of  a  man  who  has  seventeen  hundred 
thousand  francs  of  his  own,  and  can  command  a  capital  of 
three  millions.  He  had  come  to  be  the  most  conspicuous 
personage  in  Limoges.  During  that  year  he  generously  al- 
lowed Mme.  Graslin  twenty-five  twenty-franc  pieces  every 
month. 

Veronique  on  her  marriage  had  become  a  person  of  great 
interest  to  the  rank  and  fashion  of  Limoges ;  she  was  a  kind 
of  godsend  to  the  idle  curiosity  which  finds  such  meagre  suste-. 
nance  in  the  provinces.  Veronique  who  had  so  suddenly  made 
her  appearance  was  a  phenomenon,  the  more  closely  scruti- 
nized on  that  account ;  but  she  always  maintained  the  simple 
and  unaffected  attitude  of  an  onlooker  who  watches  manners 
and  usages  unknown  to  her,  and  seeks  to  conform  to  them. 
From  the  first  she  had  been  pronounced  to  have  a  good  figure 
and  a  plain  face,  and  now  it  was  decided  that  she  was  good- 
natured,  but  stupid.  She  was  learning  so  many  things  at  once, 
she  had  so  much  to  see  and  to  hear,  that  her  manner  and  talk 
gave  some  color  to  this  accusation.  A  sort  of  torpor,  more- 
over, had  stolen  over  her  which  might  well  be  mistaken  for 
stupidity.  Marriage,  that  "difficult  profession"  of  wifehood, 
as  she  called  it,  in  which  the  Church,  the  Code,  and  her  own 
mother  bade  her  practice  the  most  complete  resignation  and 
perfect  obedience,  under  pain  of  breaking  all  laws  human  and 
divine,  and  bringing  about  irreparable  evils  ;  marriage  had 
plunged  her  into  a  bewilderment  which  grew  to  the  pitch  of 


VERONIQUE.  85 

vertigo  and  delirium.  While  she  sat  silent  and  reserved,  she 
heard  her  own  thoughts  as  plainly  as  the  voices  about  her. 
For  her  "existence"  had  come  to  be  extremely  "difficult," 
to  use  the  phrase  of  the  dying  Fontenelle,  and  ever  more 
increasingly,  till  she  grew  frightened,  she  was  afraid  of  her- 
self. Nature  recoiled  from  the  orders  of  the  soul ;  the  body 
rebelled  against  the  will.  The  poor  snared  creature  wept  on 
the  bosom  of  the  great  Mother  of  the  sorrowful  and  afflicted  ; 
she  betook  herself  to  the  Cliurch,  she  redoubled  her  fervor, 
she  confided  to  her  director  the  temptations  which  assailed 
her,  she  poured  out  her  soul  in  prayer.  Never  at  any  time  in 
her  life  did  she  fulfill  her  religious  duties  so  zealously.  The 
tempest  of  despair  which  filled  her  when  she  knew  that  she 
did  not  love  her  husband  flung  her  at  the  foot  of  the  altar, 
where  divine  comforting  voices  spoke  to  her  of  patience. 
And  she  was  patient  and  sweet,  living  in  hope  of  the  joys  of 
motherhood. 

"Did  you  see  Mme.  Graslin  this  morning?"  the  women 
asked  among  themselves.  "Marriage  does  not  agree  with 
her;  she  looked  quite  ghastly." 

"Yes;  but  would  you  have  given  a  daughter  of  yours  to  a 
man  like  M.  Graslin  ?  Of  course,  if  you  marry  such  a  mon- 
ster, you  suffer  for  it." 

As  soon  as  Graslin  was  fairly  married,  all  the  mothers  who 
had  assiduously  hunted  him  for  the  past  ten  years  directed 
spiteful  speeches  at  him.  Veronique  grew  thin,  and  became 
plain  in  good  earnest.  Her  eyes  were  heavy,  her  features 
coarsened,  she  looked  shamefaced  and  embarrassed,  and  wore 
the  dreary,  chilling  expression  so  repellent  in  bigoted  devo- 
tees. A  grayish  tint  overspread  her  complexion.  She  dragged 
herself  languidly  about  during  the  first  year  of  her  marriage, 
usually  the  heyday  of  a  woman's  life.  Before  very  long  she 
sought  for  distraction  in  books,  making  use  of  her  privilege  as 
a  married  woman  to  read  everything.  She  read  Scott's  novels, 
Byron's  poems,  the  works  of  Schiller  and  Goethe,  literature 


36  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

ancient  and  modern.  She  learned  to  ride,  to  dance,  and 
draw.  She  made  sepia  drawings  and  sketches  in  water-color, 
eager  to  learn  every  device  which  women  use  to  while  away 
the  tedium  of  solitary  hours;  in  short,  that  second  education 
which  a  wom.an  nearly  always  undertakes  for  a  man's  sake  and 
with  his  guidance,  she  undertook  alone  and  for  herself. 

In  the  loftiness  of  a  nature  frank  and  free,  brought  up,  as 
it  were,  in  the  desert,  but  fortified  by  religion,  there  was  a 
wild  grandeur,  cravings  which  found  no  satisfaction  in  the 
provincial  society  in  which  she  moved.  All  the  books  de- 
scribed love ;  she  looked  up  from  her  books  on  life,  and 
found  no  traces  of  passion  there.  Love  lay  dormant  in  her 
heart  like  the  germs  which  wait  for  the  sun.  Through  a  pro- 
found melancholy,  caused  by  constant  brooding  over  herself, 
she  came  by  dim  and  winding  ways  back  to  the  last  bright 
dreams  of  her  girlhood.  She  dwelt  more  than  once  on  the 
old  romantic  imaginings,  and  became  the  heroine  and  the 
theatre  of  the  drama.  Once  again  she  saw  the  island  bathed 
in  light,  full  of  blossom  and  sweet  scents,  and  all  things  grate- 
ful to  her  soul. 

Not  seldom  her  sad  eyes  wandered  over  her  rooms  with 
searching  curiosity;  the  men  she  saw  were  all  like  Graslin  ; 
she  watched  them  closely,  and  seemed  to  turn  questioningly 
from  them  to  their  wives;  but  on  the  women's  faces  she  saw 
no  sign  of  her  own  secret  trouble,  and  sadly  and  wearily  she 
returned  to  her  starting-point,  uneasy  about  herself.  Her 
highest  thoughts  met  with  a  response  in  the  books  which  she 
read  of  a  morning,  their  wit  pleased  her;  but  in  the  evening 
she  heard  nothing  but  commonplace  thoughts,  which  no  one 
attempted  to  disguise  by  giving  a  witty  turn  to  them ;  the  talk 
around  her  was  vapid  and  empty,  or  ran  upon  gossip  and  local 
news,  which  had  no  interest  for  her.  She  wondered  some- 
limes  at  the  warmth  of  discussions  in  which  there  was  no 
question  of  sentiment,  for  her  the  very  core  of  life.  She  was 
often  seen  gazing  before  her  with  fixed,  wide  eyes,  thinking. 


VERONIQUE.  87 

doubtless,  of  hours  which  she  had  spent,  while  still  a  girl 
ignorant  of  life,  in  the  room  where  everything  had  been  in 
keeping  with  her  fancies,  and  now  laid  in  ruins,  like  Veron- 
ique's  own  existence.  She  shrank  in  pain  from  the  thought  of 
being  drawn  into  the  eddy  of  petty  cares  and  interests  like 
the  other  women  among  whom  she  was  forced  to  live ;  her  ill- 
concealed  disdain  of  the  littleness  of  her  lot,  visible  upon  her 
lips  and  brow,  was  taken  for  upstart  insolence. 

Mme.  Graslin  saw  the  coolness  upon  all  faces,  and  felt  a 
certain  bitter  tone  in  the  talk.  She  did  not  understand  the 
reason,  for  as  yet  she  had  not  made  a  friend  sufficiently  inti- 
mate to  enlighten  or  counsel  her.  Injustice,  under  which 
small  natures  chafe,  compels  loftier  souls  to  return  within 
themselves,  and  induces  in  them  a  kind  of  humility.  V6ron- 
ique  blamed  herself,  and  tried  to  discover  where  the  fault  lay. 
She  tried  to  be  gracious,  she  was  pronounced  to  be  insincere ; 
she  redoubled  her  kindliness,  and  was  said  to  be  a  hypocrite 
(her  devotion  giving  color  to  the  slander) ;  she  was  lavish  of 
hospitality,  and  gave  dinners  and  dances,  jind  was  accused  of 
pride.  All  Mme.  Graslin's  efforts  were  unsuccessful.  She 
was  misjudged  and  repulsed  by  the  petty  querulous  pride  of 
provincial  coteries,  where  susceptibilities  are  always  upon  the 
watch  for  offenses ;  she  went  no  more  into  society,  and  lived 
in  the  strictest  retirement.  The  love  in  her  heart  turned  to 
the  Church.  The  great  spirit  in  its  feeble  house  of  flesh  saw 
in  the  manifold  behests  of  Catholicism  but  so  many  stones  set 
by  the  brink  of  the  precipices  of  life,  raised  there  by  chari- 
table hands  to  prop  human  weakness  by  the  way.  So  every 
least  religious  observance  was  practiced  with  the  most  punctil- 
ious care. 

Upon  this,  the  Liberal  party  added  Mme.  Graslin's  name 
to  the  list  of  bigots  in  the  town.  She  was  classed  among  the 
Ultras,  and  party  spirit  strengthened  the  various  grudges 
which  Veronique  had  innocently  stored  up  against  herself, 
with  its  periodical  exacerbations.     But  as  she  had  nothing  to 


38  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

lose  by  this  ostracism,  she  went  no  more  into  society,  and  be- 
took herself  to  her  books,  with  the  infinite  resources  which 
they  opened  to  her.  She  thought  over  her  reading,  she 
compared  methods,  she  increased  the  amount  of  her  actual 
knowledge  and  her  power  of  acquiring  it,  and  by  so  doing 
opened  the  gateways  of  her  mind  to  curiosity. 

It  was  at  this  period  of  close  and  persistent  study,  while 
religion  supported  her,  that  she  gained  a  friend  in  M.  Gros- 
setdte,  an  old  man  whose  real  ability  had  not  grown  so  rusty 
in  the  course  of  a  life  in  a  country  town  but  that  contact  with 
a  keen  intelligence  could  still  draw  a  few  sparks  from  it.  The 
kind  soul  was  deeply  interested  in  V^ronique,  who,  in  return 
for  the  mild  warmth  of  the  mellowed  affection  which  age  alone 
can  give,  put  forth  all  the  treasures  of  her  soul ;  for  him  the 
splendid  powers  cultivated  in  secret  first  blossomed  forth. 

A  fragment  of  a  letter  written  at  this  time  to  M.  Grossetgte 
will  describe  the  mental  condition  of  a  woman  who  one  day 
should  give  proof  of  a  firm  temper  and  lofty  nature : 

"  The  flowers  which  you  sent  to  me  for  the  dance  were  very 
lovely,  yet  they  suggested  painful  thoughts.  The  sight  of  that 
beauty,  gathered  by  you  to  decorate  a  festival,  and  to  fade  on 
my  breast  and  in  my  hair,  made  me  think  of  other  flowers 
born  to  die  unseen  in  your  woods,  to  shed  sweet  scent  that  no 
one  breathes.  Then  I  asked  myself  why  I  was  dancing,  why 
I  had  decked  myself  with  flowers,  just  as  I  ask  God  why  I 
am  here  in  the  world.  You  see,  my  friend,  that  in  everything 
there  lurks  a  snare  for  the  unhappy,  just  as  the  drollest  trifles 
bring  the  sick  back  to  their  own  sufferings.  That  is  the 
worst  of  some  troubles :  they  press  upon  us  so  constantly  that 
they  shape  themselves  into  an  idea  which  is  ever  present  in 
our  minds.  An  ever-present  trouble  ought  surely  to  be  a 
hallowed  thought.  You  love  flowers  for  their  own  sake ;  I 
love  them  as  I  love  beautiful  music.  As  I  once  told  you, 
the  secret  of  a  host  of  things  is  hidden  from  me You, 


VERONIQVE.  39 

my  old  friend,  for  instance,  have  a  passion  for  gardening. 
When  you  come  back  to  town,  teach  me  to  share  in  this  taste 
of  yours  ;  send  me  with  a  light  footstep  to  my  hothouse  to  feel 
the  interest  which  you  take  in  watching  your  plants  grow.  You 
seem  to  me  to  live  and  blossom  with  them,  to  take  a  delight  in 
them,  as  in  something  of  your  own  creation ;  to  discover  new 
colors,  novel  splendors,  which  come  forth  under  your  eyes, 
the  result  of  your  labors.  I  feel  that  the  emptiness  of  my  life 
is  breaking  my  heart.  For  me,  my  hothouse  is  full  of  pining 
souls.  The  distress  which  I  force  myself  to  relieve  saddens 
ray  very  soul.  I  find  some  young  mother  without  linen  for 
her  newborn  babe,  some  old  man  starving,  I  make  their 
troubles  mine,  and  even  when  I  have  helped  them,  the  feel- 
ings aroused  in  me  by  the  sight  of  misery  relieved  are  not 
enough  to  satisfy  my  soul.  Oh !  my  friend,  I  feel  that  I  have 
great  powers  asserting  themselves  in  me,  powers  of  doing  evil, 
it  may  be,  which  nothing  can  crush — powers  that  the  hardest 
commandments  of  religion  cannot  humble.  When  I  go  to  see 
my  mother,  when  I  am  quite  alone  among  the  fields,  I  feel 
that  I  must  cry  aloud,  and  I  cry.  My  body  is  the  prison  in 
which  one  of  the  evil  genii  has  pent  up  some  moaning  crea- 
ture, until  the  mysterious  word  shall  be  uttered  which  shatters 
the  cramping  cell.  But  this  comparison  is  not  just.  In  my 
case  it  should  be  reversed.  It  is  the  body  which  is  a  prisoner, 
if  I  may  make  use  of  the  expression.  Does  not  religion 
occupy  my  soul  ?  And  the  treasures  gained  by  reading  are 
constant  food  for  the  mind.  Why  do  I  long  for  any  change, 
even  if  it  comes  as  suffering — for  any  break  in  the  enervating 
peace  of  my  lot?  Unless  I  find  some  sentiment  to  uphold 
me,  some  strong  interest  to  cultivate,  I  feel  that  I  shall  drift 
towards  the  abyss  where  every  idea  grows  hazy  and  meaning- 
less, where  character  is  enervated,  where  the  springs  of  one's 
being  grow  slack  and  inert,  where  I  shall  be  no  longer  the 
woman  nature  intended  me  to  be.  That  is  what  my  cries 
mean But   you  will  not  cease   to   send  flowers   to  me 


40  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

because  of  this  outcry  of  mine?  Your  friendship  has  been 
so  sweet  and  pleasant  a  thing,  that  it  has  reconciled  me 
with  myself  for  several  months.  Yes,  I  feel  happy  when  I 
think  that  you  sometimes  throw  a  friendly  glance  over  the 
blossoming  desert-place,  my  inner  self;  that  the  wanderer, 
half-dead  after  her  fliglit  on  the  fiery  steed  of  a  dream,  will 
meet  with  a  kind  word  of  greeting  from  you  on  her  return." 

Three  years  after  Veronique's  marriage,  it  occurred  to 
Graslin  that  his  wife  never  used  the  horses,  and,  a  good  op- 
portunity offering  itself,  he  sold  them.  The  carriages  were 
sold  at  the  same  time,  the  coachman  was  dismissed,  and  the 
cook  from  Paris  transferred  to  the  bishop's  establishment.  A 
woman-servant  took  his  place.  Graslin  ceased  to  give  his 
wife  an  allowance,  saying  that  he  would  pay  all  the  bills.  He 
was  the  happiest  man  in  the  world  when  he  met  with  no  op- 
position from  the  wife  who  had  brought  him  a  million.  There 
was  not  much  merit,  it  is  true,  in  Mme.  Graslin's  self-denial. 
She  knew  nothing  of  money,  she  had  been  brought  up  in 
ignorance  of  it  as  an  indispensable  element  in  life.  Graslin 
found  the  sums  which  he  had  given  to  her  lying  in  a  corner 
of  her  desk ;  scarcely  any  of  it  had  been  spent.  Veronique 
gave  to  the  poor,  her  trousseau  had  been  so  large  that  as  yet 
she  had  had  scarcely  any  expenses  for  dress.  Graslin  praised 
Veronique  to  all  Limoges  as  the  pattern  of  wives. 

The  splendor  of  the  furniture  gave  him  pangs,  so  he  had  it 
all  shrouded  in  covers.  His  wife's  bedroom,  boudoir,  and 
dressing-room  alone  escaped  this  dispensation,  an  economical 
measure  which  economized  nothing,  for  the  wear  and  tear  to 
the  furniture  is  the  same,  covers  or  no  covers. 

He  next  took  up  his  abode  on  the  ground  floor,  where  the 
counting-house  and  office  had  been  established,  so  he  began 
his  old  life  again,  and  was  as  keen  in  pursuit  of  gain  as  before. 
The  Auvergnat  banker  thought  himself  a  model  husband  be- 
cause he  breakfasted  and  dined  with  his  wife,  who  carefully 


VERONIQUE.  41 

ordered  the  meals  for  him  ;  but  he  was  so  extremely  unpunc- 
tual,  that  he  came  in  at  the  proper  hour  scarce  ten  times  a 
month  ;  and  though,  out  of  thoughtfulness,  he  asked  her  never 
to  wait  for  him,  Veronique  always  stayed  to  carve  for  him ; 
she  wanted  to  fulfill  her  wifely  duties  in  some  one  visible 
manner.  His  marriage  had  not  been  a  matter  to  which  the 
banker  gave  much  thought;  his  wife  represented  the  sum  of 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs ;  he  had  not  discov- 
ered that  that  wife  shrank  from  him.  Gradually  he  had  left 
Mme.  Graslin  to  herself,  and  became  absorbed  in  business; 
and  when  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  have  a  bed  put  up  for 
himself  in  a  room  next  to  his  private  office,  Veronique  saw  that 
his  wishes  were  carried  out  at  once. 

So  after  three  years  of  marriage  this  ill-assorted  couple  went 
their  separate  ways  as  before,  and  felt  glad  to  return  to  them. 
The  capitalist,  owner  now  of  eighteen  hundred  thousand 
francs,  returned  to  his  occupation  of  money-making  with  all 
the  more  zest  after  the  brief  interval.  His  two  clerks  and  the 
office-boy  were  somewhat  better  lodged  and  a  little  better  fed 
— that  was  all  the  difference  between  the  past  and  the  present. 
His  wife  had  a  cook  and  a  waiting-maid  (the  two  servants 
could  not  well  be  dispensed  with),  and  no  calls  were  made  on 
Graslin's  purse  except  for  strict  necessaries. 

And  Veronique  was  happy  in  the  turn  things  had  taken ; 
she  saw  in  the  banker's  satisfaction  a  compensation  for  a  sep- 
aration for  which  she  had  never  asked  ;  it  was  impossible 
that  Graslin  should  shrink  from  her  as  she  shrank  from  him. 
She  was  half-glad,  half-sorry  of  this  secret  divorce;  she  had 
looked  forward  to  motherhood,  which  should  bring  a  new 
interest  into  her  life ;  but  in  spite  of  their  mutual  resig- 
nation, there  was  no  child  of  the  marriage  as  yet  in  1828. 

So  Mme.  Graslin,  envied  by  all  Limoges,  led  as  lonely 
a  life  in  her  splendid  home  as  formerly  in  her  father's 
hovel ;  but  the  hopes  and  the  childish  joys  of  inexperience 
were  gone.     She  lived  in  the  ruins  of  her  "castles  in  Spain," 


42  THE   COUNTRY  PARSOlf. 

enlightened  by  sad  experience,  sustained  by  a  devout  faith, 
busying  herself  for  the  poor  of  the  district,  whom  she  loaded 
with  kindnesses.  She  made  baby  linen  for  them ;  she  gave 
sheets  and  bedding  to  those  who  lay  on  straw ;  she  went 
everywhere  with  her  maid — a  good  Auvergnate  whom  her 
mother  found  for  her.  This  girl  attached  herself  body  and 
soul  to  her  mistress,  and  became  a  charitable  spy  for  her, 
whose  mission  it  was  to  find  out  trouble  to  soothe  and  distress 
to  relieve.  Tliis  life  of  busy  benevolence  and  of  punctilious 
performance  of  the  duties  enjoined  by  the  Church  was  a  hidden 
life,  only  known  by  the  cures  of  the  town  who  directed  it,  for 
V6ronique  took  their  counsel  in  all  that  she  did,  so  that  the 
money  intended  for  the  deserving  poor  should  not  be  squan- 
dered by  vice. 

During  these  years  Veronique  found  another  friendship 
quite  as  precious  to  her  and  as  warm  as  her  friendship  with  old 
Grosset&te.  She  became  one  of  the  flock  of  the  Abbe  Du- 
theil,  one  of  the  vicars-general  of  the  diocese.  This  priest 
belonged  to  the  small  minority  among  the  French  clergy  who 
lean  towards  concession,  who  would  fain  associate  the  Church 
with  the  popular  cause.  By  putting  evangelical  principles  in 
practice,  the  Church  should  gain  her  old  ascendency  over  the 
people,  whom  she  could  then  bind  to  the  Monarchy.  But 
the  Abbe  Dutheil's  merits  were  unrecognized,  and  he  was 
persecuted.  Perhaps  he  had  seen  that  it  was  hopeless  to 
attempt  to  enlighten  the  Court  of  Rome  and  the  clerical 
party ;  perhaps  he  had  sacrificed  his  convictions  at  the  bid- 
ding of  his  superiors ;  at  any  rate,  he  dwelt  within  the  limits 
of  the  strictest  orthodoxy,  knowing  the  while  that  the  mere 
expression  of  his  convictions  would  close  his  way  to  a  bish- 
opric. A  great  and  Christian  humility,  blended  with  a  lofty 
character,  distinguished  this  eminent  churchman.  He  had 
neither  pride  nor  ambition,  and  stayed  at  his  post,  doing  his 
duty  in  the  midst  of  peril.  The  Liberal  party  in  the  town, 
who  knew  nothing  of  his   motives,  quoted  his  opinions  in 


VERONIQUE.  43 

support  of  their  own,  and  reckoned  him  as  a  "patriot,"  a 
word  which  means '' a  revolutionaire  "  for  good  Catholics. 
He  was  beloved  by  those  below  him,  who  did  not  dare  to 
praise  his  wortli ;  dreaded  by  his  equals,  who  watched  him 
narrowly ;  and  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  his  bishop.  He  was 
not  exactly  persecuted,  his  learning  and  virtues  were  too  well 
known  ;  it  was  impossible  to  find  fault  with  him  freely,  though 
he  criticised  the  blunders  in  policy  by  which  the  Throne  and 
the  Church  alternately  compromised  each  other,  and  pointed 
out  the  inevitable  results ;  like  poor  Cassandra,  he  was  reviled 
by  his  own  party  before  and  after  the  fall  which  he  predicted. 
Nothing  short  of  a  revolution  was  likely  to  shake  the  Abbe 
Dutheil  from  his  place ;  he  was  a  foundation-stone  in  the 
Church,  an  unseen  block  of  granite  on  which  everything  else 
rests.  His  utility  was  recognized,  and — he  was  left  in  his 
place,  like  most  of  the  real  power  of  which  mediocrity  is 
jealous  and  afraid.  If,  like  the  Abb6  de  Lamennais,  he  had 
taken  up  the  pen,  he  would  probably  have  shared  his  fate ;  at 
him,  too,  the  thunderbolts  of  Rome  would  have  been 
launched. 

In  person  the  Abb6  Dutheil  was  commanding.  Something 
in  his  appearance  spoke  of  a  soul  so  profound  that  the  surface 
is  always  calm  and  smooth.  His  height  and  spare  frame  did 
not  mar  the  general  effect  of  the  outlines  of  his  figure,  which 
vaguely  recalled  those  forms  which  Spanish  painters  loved 
best  to  paint  for  great  monastic  thinkers  and  dreamers — forms 
which  Thorvaldsen  in  our  own  time  has  selected  for  his 
apostles.  His  face,  with  the  long,  almost  austere  lines  in  it, 
which  bore  out  the  impression  made  by  the  straight  folds  of 
his  garments,  possessed  the  same  charm  which  the  sculptors 
of  the  middle  ages  discovered  and  recorded  in  the  mystic 
figures  about  the  doorways  of  their  churches.  His  grave 
thoughts,  grave  words,  and  grave  tones  were  all  in  keeping, 
and  the  expression  of  the  Abbe's  personality.  At  the  first 
sight  of  the  dark  eyes,  which  aixsterity  had  surrounded  with 


44  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

hollow  shadowy  circles ;  the  forehead,  yellowed  like  old 
marble ;  the  bony  outlines  of  the  head  and  hands,  no  one 
could  have  expected  to  hear  any  voice  but  his,  or  any  teaching 
but  that  which  fell  from  his  lips.  It  was  this  purely  physical 
grandeur,  in  keeping  with  the  moral  grandeur  of  his  nature, 
that  gave  him  a  certain  seeming  haughtiness  and  aloofness, 
belied,  it  is  true,  by  his  humility  and  his  talk,  yet  unpre- 
possessing in  the  first  instance.  In  a  higher  position  these 
qualities  would  have  been  advantages  which  would  have 
enabled  him  to  gain  a  necessary  ascendency  over  the  crowd 
— an  ascendency  which  it  is  quick  to  feel  and  to  recognize ; 
but  he  was  a  subordinate,  and  a  man's  superiors  never  pardon 
him  for  possessing  the  natural  insignia  of  power,  the  majesty 
so  highly  valued  in  an  older  time,  and  often  so  signally 
lacking  in  modern  upholders  of  authority. 

His  colleague,  the  Abbe  de  Grancour,  the  other  vicar- 
general  of  the  diocese,  a  blue-eyed,  stout  little  man  with  a 
florid  complexion,  worked  willingly  enough  with  the  Abb6 
Dutheil,  albeit  their  opinions  were  diametrically  opposed;  a 
curious  phenomenon,  which  only  a  wily  courtier  will  regard 
as  a  natural  thing ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  the  Abbe  de  Gran- 
cour was  very  careful  not  to  commit  himself  in  any  way 
which  might  cost  him  the  favor  of  his  bishop  ;  the  little  man 
would  have  sacrificed  anything  (even  convictions)  to  stand 
well  in  that  quarter.  He  had  a  sincere  belief  in  his  colleague, 
he  recognized  his  ability  ;  in  private  he  admitted  his  doctrines, 
while  he  condemned  them  in  public  ;  for  men  of  his  kind 
are  attracted  to  a  powerful  character,  while  they  fear  and  hate 
the  superiority  whose  society  they  cultivate.  **  He  would  put 
his  arms  round  my  neck  while  he  condemned  me,"  said  the 
Abb6  Dutheil.  The  Abb6  de  Grancour  had  neither  friends 
nor  enemies,  and  was  likely  to  die  a  vicar-general.  He  gave 
out  that  he  was  drawn  to  Veronique's  house  by  a  wish  to  give 
a  woman  so  benevolent  and  so  devout  the  benefit  of  his 
counsels,   and   the   bishop  signified   his  approval ;    but,    in 


VERONIQUE.  45 

reality,  he  was  only  too  delighted  to  spend  an  evening  now 
and  then  in  this  way  with  the  Abbe  Dutheil. 

From  this  time  forward  both  priests  became  pretty  constant 
visitors  in  Veronique's  house ;  they  used  to  bring  her  a  sort 
of  general  report  of  any  distress  in  the  district,  and  talk  over 
the  best  means  of  benefiting  the  poor  morally  and  materially ; 
but  year  by  year  M.  Graslin  drew  the  purse-strings  closer  and 
closer ;  for,  in  spite  of  ingenious  excuses  devised  by  his  wife 
and  Aline  the  maid,  he  suspected  that  all  the  money  was  not 
required  for  expenses  of  dress  and  housekeeping.  He  grew 
angry  at  last  when  he  reckoned  up  the  amount  which  his  wife 
gave  away.  He  himself  would  go  through  the  bills  with  the 
cook,  he  went  minutely  into  the  details  of  their  expenditure, 
and  showed  himself  the  great  administrator  that  he  was  by 
demonstrating  conclusively  from  his  own  experience  that  it 
was  possible  to  live  in  luxury  on  three  thousand  francs  per 
annum.  Whereupon  he  compounded  the  matter  with  his 
wife  by  allowing  her  a  hundred  francs  a  month,  to  be  duly 
accounted  for,  pluming  himself  on  the  royal  bounty  of  the 
grant.  The  garden,  now  handed  over  to  him,  was  "done 
up  "  of  a  Sunday  by  the  porter,  who  had  a  liking  for  garden- 
ing. After  the  gardener  was  dismissed,  the  conservatory  was 
turned  to  account  as  a  warehouse,  where  Graslin  deposited  the 
goods  left  with  him  as  security  for  small  loans.  The  birds  in 
the  aviary  above  the  ice-house  were  left  to  starve,  to  save  the 
expense  of  feeding  them  ;  and  when  at  length  a  winter  passed 
without  a  single  frost,  he  took  that  opportunity  of  declining 
to  pay  for  ice  any  longer.  By  the  year  1828  every  article  of 
luxury  was  curtailed,  and  parsimony  reigned  undisturbed  in 
the  Hotel  Graslin. 

During  the  first  three  years  after  Graslin's  marriage,  with 
his  wife  at  hand  to  make  him  follow  out  the  doctor's  instruc- 
tions, his  complexion  had  somewhat  improved ;  now  it 
inflamed  again,  and  became  redder  and  more  florid  than  in 
the  past.      So  largely,  at  the  same  time,  did   his   business 


46  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

increase,  that  the  porter  was  promoted  to  be  a  clerk  (as  his 
master  had  been  before  him),  and  another  Auvergnat  had  to 
be  found  to  do  the  odd  jobs  of  the  Hotel  Graslin, 

After  four  years  of  married  life  the  woman  who  had  so 
much  wealth  had  not  three  francs  to  call  her  own.  To  the 
niggardliness  of  her  parents  succeeded  the  no  less  niggardly 
dispensation  of  her  husband ;  and  Mme.  Graslin,  whose 
benevolent  impulses  were  checked,  felt  the  need  of  money 
for  the  first  time. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1828  V6ronique  had  recovered 
the  bloom  of  health  which  had  lent  such  beauty  to  the  inno- 
cent girl  who  used  to  sit  at  the  window  in  the  old  house  in 
the  Rue  de  la  Cit6.  She  had  read  widely  since  those  days  ; 
she  had  learned  to  think  and  to  express  her  thoughts  ;  the 
habit  of  forming  accurate  judgments  had  lent  profundity  to 
her  features.  The  little  details  of  social  life  had  become 
familiar  to  her,  she  wore  a  fashionable  toilet  with  the  most 
perfect  ease  and  grace.  If  chance  brought  her  into  a  draw- 
ing-room at  this  time,  she  found,  not  without  surprise,  that 
she  was  received  with  something  like  respectful  esteem  ;  this 
way  of  regarding  her,  like  her  reception,  was  due  to  the  two 
vicars-general  and  old  Grossetdte.  The  bishop  and  one  or 
two  influential  people,  hearing  of  Veronique's  unwearying 
benevolence,  had  talked  about  this  fair  life  hidden  from  the 
world,  this  violet  perfumed  with  virtues,  this  blossom  of  un- 
feigned piety.  So,  all  unknown  to  Mme.  Graslin,  a  revolu- 
tion had  been  wrought  in  her  favor  ;  one  of  those  reactions 
so  much  the  more  lasting  and  sure  because  they  are  slowly 
affected.  With  this  right-about-face  in  opinion  Veronique 
became  a  power  in  the  land.  Her  drawing-room  was  the 
resort  of  the  luminaries  of  Limoges;  the  practical  change 
was  brought  about  by  this  means: 

The  young  Vicomte  de  Granville  came  to  the  town  at  the 
end  of  that  year,  preceded  by  the  ready-made  reputation 
which  awaits  a  Parisian  on  his  arrival  in  the  provinces.     He 


VERONIQUE.  47 

had  been  appointed  deputy  public  prosecutor  to  the  Court 
of  Limoges.  A  few  days  after  his  arrival  he  said,  in  answer 
to  a  sufficiently  silly  question,  that  Mme.  Graslin  was  the 
cleverest,  most  amiable,  and  most  distinguished  woman  in 
the  city,  and  this  at  the  prefect's  "At  Home,"  and  before  a 
whole  room  full  of  people. 

'*  And  the  most  beautiful  as  well,  perhaps  ?  "  suggested  the 
receiver-general's  wife. 

*'  There  I  do  not  venture  to  agree  with  you,"  he  answered; 
"  when  you  are  present  I  am  unable  to  decide.  Mme.  Gras- 
lin's  beauty  is  not  of  a  kind  which  should  inspire  jealousy  in 
you,  she  never  appears  in  broad  daylight.  Mme.  Graslin  is 
only  beautiful  for  those  whom  she  loves  ;  you  are  beautiful  for 
all  eyes.  If  Mme.  Graslin  is  deeply  stirred,  her  face  is  trans- 
formed by  its  expression.  It  is  like  a  landscape,  dreary  in 
winter,  glorious  in  summer.  Most  people  only  see  it  in  winter ; 
but  if  you  watch  her  while  she  talks  with  her  friends  on  some 
literary  or  philosophical  subject,  or  upon  some  religious  ques- 
tion which  interests  her,  her  face  lights  up,  and  suddenly  she 
becomes  another  woman,  a  woman  of  wonderful  beauty." 

This  declaration,  a  recognition  of  the  same  beautiful  trans- 
figuration which  Veronique's  face  underwent  as  she  returned 
to  iier  place  from  the  communion  table,  made  a  sensation  in 
Limoges,  for  the  new  substitute  (destined,  it  was  said,  to  be 
attorney-general  one  day)  was  the  hero  of  the  hour.  In 
every  country  town  a  man  a  little  above  the  ordinary  level 
becomes  for  a  shorter  or  longer  time  the  subject  of  a  craze,  a 
sham  enthusiasm  to  which  the  idol  of  the  moment  falls  a 
victim.  To  these  freaks  of  the  provincial  drawing-room  we 
owe  the  local  genius  and  the  person  who  suffers  from  the 
chronic  complaint  of  unappreciated  superiority.  Sometimes 
it  is  native  talent  which  women  discover  and  bring  into  fashion, 
but  more  frequently  it  is  some  outsider ;  and  for  once,  in  the 
case  of  the  Vicomte  de  Granville,  the  homage  was  paid  to 
genuine  ability. 


48  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

The  Parisian  found  that  Mme.  Graslin  was  the  only  woman 
with  whom  he  could  exchange  ideas  or  carry  on  a  sustained 
and  varied  conversation  ;  and  a  few  months  after  his  arrival, 
as  the  charm  of  her  talk  and  manner  gained  upon  him,  he 
suggested  to  some  of  the  prominent  men  in  the  town,  and  to 
the  Abbe  Dutheil  among  them,  that  they  might  make  their 
party  at  whist  of  an  evening  in  Mme.  Graslin's  drawing-room. 
So  Veronique  was  at  home  to  her  friends  for  five  nights  in  the 
week  (two  days  she  wished  to  keep  free,  she  said,  for  her  own 
concerns) ;  and  when  the  cleverest  men  in  the  town  gathered 
about  Mme.  Graslin,  others  were  not  sorry  to  take  brevet  rank 
as  wits  by  spending  their  evenings  in  her  society.  V6ronique 
received  the  two  or  three  distinguished  military  men  stationed 
in  the  town  or  on  the  garrison  staff.  The  entire  freedom  of  dis- 
cussion enjoyed  by  her  visitors,  the  absolute  discretion  required 
of  them,  tacitly  and  by  the  adoption  of  the  manners  of  the 
best  society,  combined  to  make  Veronique  exclusive  and  very 
slow  to  admit  those  who  courted  the  honor  of  her  society  to 
her  circle.  Other  women  saw  not  without  jealousy  that  the 
cleverest  and  pleasantest  men  gathered  round  Mme.  Graslin, 
and  her  power  was  the  more  widely  felt  in  Limoges  because 
she  was  exclusive.  The  four  or  five  women  whom  she  accepted 
were  strangers  to  the  district,  who  had  accompanied  their 
husbands  from  Paris,  and  looked  on  provincial  tittle-tattle 
with  disgust.  If  some  one  chanced  to  call  who  did  not  belong 
to  the  inner  cenacle,  the  conversation  underwent  an  immediate 
change,  and  with  one  accord  all  present  spoke  of  indifferent 
things. 

So  the  Hotel  Graslin  became  a  sort  of  oasis  in  the  desert 
where  a  chosen  few  sought  relief  in  each  other's  society  from 
the  tedium  of  provincial  life,  a  house  where  officials  might 
discuss  politics  and  speak  their  minds  without  fear  of  their 
opinions  being  reported,  where  all  things  worthy  of  mockery 
were  fair  game  for  wit  and  laughter,  where  every  one  laid  aside 
his  professional  uniform  to  give  his  natural  character  free  play. 


VERONIQUE.  49 

In  the  beginning  of  that  year  1828,  Mme.  Graslin,  whose 
girlhood  had  been  spent  in  the  most  complete  obscurity,  who 
had  been  pronounced  to  be  plain  and  stupid  and  a  complete 
nullity,  was  now  looked  upon  as  the  most  important  person 
in  the  town,  and  the  most  conspicuous  woman  in  society. 
No  one  called  upon  her  in  the  morning,  for  her  benevolence 
and  her  punctuality  in  the  performance  of  her  duties  of  relig- 
ion were  well  known.  She  almost  invariably  went  to  the  first 
mass,  returning  in  time  for  her  husband's  early  breakfast.  He 
was  the  most  unpunctual  of  men,  but  she  always  sat  with  him, 
for  Graslin  had  learned  to  expect  this  little  attention  from  his 
wife.  As  for  Graslin,  he  never  let  slip  an  opportunity  of 
praising  her;  he  thought  her  perfection..  She  never  asked 
him  for  money  ;  he  was  free  to  pile  up  silver  crown  on  silver 
crown,  and  to  expand  his  field  of  operations.  He  had  opened 
an  account  with  the  firm  of  Brezac ;  he  had  set  sail  upon  a 
commercial  sea,  and  the  horizon  was  gradually  widening  out 
before  him  ;  his  over-stimulated  interest,  intent  upon  the  great 
events  of  the  green  table  called  very  superficially  Speculation, 
kept  him  perpetually  in  the  cold,  frenzied  intoxication  of  the 
gambler. 

During  this  happy  year,  and  indeed  until  the  beginning 
of  the  year  1829,  Mme.  Graslin's  friends  watched  a  strange 
change  passing  in  her,  under  their  eyes ;  her  beauty  became 
really  extraordinary,  but  the  reasons  of  the  change  were  never 
discovered.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  be  bathed  in  a  soft  liquid 
light,  full  of  tenderness,  the  blue  iris  widened  like  an  expand- 
ing flower  as  the  dark  pupils  contracted.  Memories  and  happy 
thoughts  seemed  to  light  up  her  brow,  which  grew  whiter, 
like  some  ridge  of  snow  in  the  dawn,  her  features  seemed  to 
regain  their  purity  of  outline  in  some  refining  fire  within. 
Her  face  lost  the  feverish  brown  color  which  threatens  inflam- 
mation of  the  liver,  the  malady  of  vigorous  temperaments  of 
troubled  minds  and  thwarted  affections.  Her  temples  grew 
adorably  fresh  and  youthful.  Frequently  her  friends  saw 
4 


60  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON, 

glimpses  of  the  divinely  fair  face  which  a  Raphael  might  have 
painted,  the  face  which  disease  had  covered  with  an  ugly  film, 
such  as  time  spreads  over  the  canvas  of  the  great  master. 
Her  hands  looked  whiter,  there  was  a  delicate  fulness  in  the 
rounded  curves  of  her  shoulders,  and  her  quick  dainty  move- 
ments displayed  to  the  very  full  the  lissome  grace  of  her 
form. 

The  women  said  that  she  was  in  love  with  M.  de  Granville, 
who,  for  that  matter,  paid  assiduous  court  to  her,  though 
Veronique  raised  between  them  the  barriers  of  a  pious  resist- 
ance. The  deputy  public  prosecutor  professed  a  respectful 
admiration  for  her  which  did  not  impose  upon  frequenters  of 
her  house.  Clearer-sighted  observers  attributed  to  a  different 
cause  this  change,  which  made  Veronique  still  more  charming 
to  her  friends.  Any  woman,  however  devout,  could  not  but 
feel  in  her  inmost  soul  that  it  was  sweet  to  be  so  courted,  to 
know  the  satisfaction  of  living  in  a  congenial  atmosphere,  the 
delight  of  exchanging  ideas  (so  great  a  relief  in  a  tedious  life), 
the  pleasure  of  the  society  of  well-read  and  agreeable  men, 
and  of  sincere  friendships,  which  grew  day  by  day.  It  needed, 
perhaps,  an  observer  still  more  profound,  more  acute,  or  more 
suspicious  than  any  of  those  who  came  to  the  Hotel  Graslin  to 
divine  the  untamed  greatness,  the  strength  of  the  woman  of 
the  people  pent  up  in  the  depths  of  Veronique' s  nature.  Now 
and  again  they  might  surprise  her  in  a  torpid  mood,  overcast 
by  gloomy  or  merely  pensive  musings,  but  all  her  friends 
knew  that  she  carried  many  troubles  in  her  heart ;  that,  doubt- 
less, in  the  morning  she  had  been  initiated  into  many  sorrows, 
that  she  penetrated  into  dark  places  where  vice  is  appalling 
by  reason  of  its  unblushing  front.  Not  seldom,  indeed,  the 
Vicomte,  soon  promoted  to  be  an  avocat  general,  scolded  her 
for  some  piece  of  blind  benevolence  discovered  by  him  in  the 
course  of  his  investigations.  Justice  complained  that  Charity 
had  paved  the  way  to  the  police  court. 

**  Do  you  want  money  for  some  of  your  poor  people  ?  "  old 


Do    YOU    WANT    MONEY    FOR    SOME   OF    YOUR    POOR    PEOPLE?" 


^^^^^ 


\ 


'-!8?^- 


,^' 


VERONIQUE.  61 

GrossetSte  had  asxed  on  this,  as  he  took  her  hand  in  his.  "  I 
will  share  the  guilt  of  your  benefactions." 

**It  is  impossible  to  make  everybody  rich,"  she  answered, 
heaving  a  sigh. 

An  event  occurred  at  the  beginning  of  this  year  which  was 
to  change  the  whole  current  of  Veronique's  inner  life,  as  well 
as  the  wonderful  expression  of  her  face,  which  henceforward 
became  a  portrait  infinitely  more  interesting  to  a  painter's 
eyes. 

Graslin  grew  rather  fidgety  about  his  health,  and  to  his 
wife's  great  despair  left  his  ground-floor  quarters  and  returned 
to  her  apartment  to  be  tended.  Soon  afterwards  Mme.  Gras- 
lin's  condition  became  a  matter  of  town  gossip ;  she  was  about 
to  become  a  mother.  Her  evident  sadness,  mingled  with  joy, 
filled  her  friends'  thoughts ;  they  then  divined  that,  in  spite 
of  her  virtues,  she  was  happiest  when  she  lived  apart  from  her 
husband.  Perhaps  she  had  had  hopes  for  better  things  since 
the  day  when  the  Vicomte  de  Granville  had  declined  to  marry 
the  richest  heiress  in  Limousin,  and  still  continued  to  pay 
court  to  her.  Ever  since  that  event  the  profound  politicians 
who  exercise  the  censorship  of  sentiments,  and  settle  other 
people's  business  in  the  intervals  of  whist,  had  suspected  the 
lawyer  and  young  Mme.  Graslin  of  basing  hopes  of  their  own 
on  the  banker's  failing  health — hopes  which  were  brought  to 
nothing  by  this  unexpected  development.  It  was  a  time  in 
Veronique's  life  when  deep  distress  of  mind  was  added  to  the 
apprehensions  of  a  first  confinement,  always  more  perilous,  it 
is  said,  when  a  woman  is  past  her  first  youth,  but  all  through 
those  days  her  friends  showed  themselves  more  thoughtful  for 
her ;  there  was  not  one  of  them  but  made  her  feel  in  innumer- 
able small  ways  what  warmth  there  was  in  these  friendships  of 
hers,  and  how  solid  they  had  become. 


58  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

II. 

TASCHERON. 

It  was  in  the  same  year  that  Limoges  witnessed  the  terrible 
spectacle  and  strange  tragedy  of  the  Tascheron  case,  in  which 
the  young  Vicomte  de  Granville  displayed  the  talents  which 
procured  him  the  appointment  of  public  prosecutor  at  a  later 
day. 

An  old  man  living  in  a  lonely  house  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Etienne  was  murdered.  A  large  orchard 
isolates  the  dwelling  on  the  side  of  the  town,  on  the  other  there 
is  a  pleasure  garden,  with  a  row  of  unused  hothouses  at  the 
bottom  of  it ;  then  follow  the  open  fields.  The  bank  of  the 
Vienne  in  this  place  rises  up  very  steeply  from  the  river,  the 
little  front  garden  slopes  down  to  this  embankment,  and  is 
bounded  by  a  low  wall  surmounted  by  an  open  fence. 
Square  stone  posts  are  set  along  it  at  even  distances,  but  the 
painted  wooden  railings  are  there  more  by  way  of  ornament 
than  as  a  protection  to  the  property. 

The  old  man,  Pingret  by  name,  a  notorious  miser,  lived 
quite  alone  save  for  a  servant,  a  countrywoman  whom  he 
employed  in  the  garden.  He  trained  his  espaliers  and  pruned 
his  fruit  trees  himself,  gathering  his  crops  and  selling  them 
in  the  town,  and  excelled  in  growing  early  vegetables  for  the 
market.  The  old  man's  niece  and  sole  heiress,  who  had 
married  a  M.  des  Vanneaulx,  a  man  of  small  independent 
means,  and  lived  in  Limoges,  had  many  a  time  implored  her 
uncle  to  keep  a  man  as  protection  to  the  place,  pointing 
out  to  him  that  he  would  be  able  to  grow  more  garden 
produce  in  several  borders  planted  with  standard  fruit  trees 
beneath  which  he  now  sowed  millet  and  the  like ;  but  it  was 
of  no  use,  the  old  man  would  not  hear  of  it.  This  contra- 
diction in  a  miser  gave  rise  to  all  sorts  of  conjectures  in  the 
houses   where   the    Vanneaulx   spent    their   evenings.      The 


TASCHERON.  53 

most  divergent  opinions  had  more  than  once  divided  parties 
at  boston.  Some  knowing  folk  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
there  was  a  treasure  hidden  under  the  growing  luzern. 

*'  If  I  were  in  Mme.  des  Vanneaulx's  place,"  remarked  one 
pleasant  gentleman,  "  I  would  not  worry  my  uncle,  I  know. 
If  somebody  murders  him,  well  and  good  ;  somebody  will 
murder  him.     I  should  come  in  for  the  property." 

Mme.  des  Vanneaulx,  however,  thought  differently.  As  a 
manager  at  the  Theatre-Italien  implores  the  tenor  who  "draws ' ' 
a  full  house  to  be  very  careful  to  wrap  up  his  throat,  and  gives 
him  his  cloak  when  the  singer  has  forgotten  his  overcoat,  so 
did  Mme.  des  Vanneaulx  try  to  watch  over  her  relative.  She 
had  offered  little  Pingret  a  magnificent  yard  dog,  but  the  old 
man  sent  the  animal  back  again  by  Jeanne  Malassis  his 
servant. 

"  Your  uncle  has  no  mind  to  have  one  more  mouth  to  feed 
up  at  our  place,"  said  the  handmaid  to  Mme.  des  Vanneaulx. 

The  event  proved  that  his  niece's  fears  had  been  but  too 
well  founded.  Pingret  was  murdered  one  dark  night  in  the 
patch  of  luzern,  whither  he  had  gone,  no  doubt,  to  add  a  few 
louis  to  a  pot  full  of  gold.  The  servant,  awakened  by  the 
sounds  of  the  struggle,  had  the  courage  to  go  to  the  old  man's 
assistance,  and  the  murderer  found  himself  compelled  to  kill 
her  also,  lest  she  should  bear  witness  against  him.  This  cal- 
culation of  probable  risks,  which  nearly  always  prompts  a 
man  guilty  of  one  murder  to  add  another  to  his  account,  is 
one  unfortunate  result  of  the  capital  sentence  which  he  beholds 
looming  in  the  distance. 

The  double  crime  was  accompanied  by  strange  circum- 
stances, which  told  as  strongly  for  the  defense  as  for  the  prose- 
cution. When  the  neighbors  had  seen  nothing  of  Pingret  nor 
of  the  servant  for  the  whole  morning;  when,  as  they  came 
and  went,  they  looked  through  the  wooden  railings  and  saw 
that  the  doors  and  windows  (contrary  to  wont)  were  still 
barred  and  fastened,  the  thing  began  to  be  bruited  abroad 


54  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON: 

through  the  Faubourg  Saint-Etienne,  till  it  reached  Mme.  des 
Vanneaulx  in  the  Rue  des  Cloches.  Mme.  des  Vanneaulx, 
whose  mind  always  ran  on  horrors,  sent  for  the  police,  and  the 
doors  were  broken  open.  In  the  four  patches  of  luzern  there 
were  four  gaping  holes  in  the  earth,  surrounded  by  rubbish, 
and  strewn  with  broken  shards  of  the  pots  which  had  been 
full  of  gold  the  night  before.  In  two  of  the  holes,  which 
had  been  partly  filled  up,  they  found  the  bodies  of  old  Pingret 
and  Jeanne  Malassis,  buried  in  their  clothes ;  she,  poor  thing, 
had  run  out  barefooted  in  her  night-dress. 

While  the  public  prosecutor,  the  commissary,  and  the  exam- 
ining magistrate  took  down  all  these  particulars,  the  unlucky 
des  Vanneaulx  collected  the  scraps  of  broken  pottery,  put 
them  together,  and  calculated  the  amount  the  jars  should  have 
held.  The  authorities,  perceiving  the  common-sense  of  this 
proceeding,  estimated  the  stolen  treasure  at  a  thousand  pieces 
per  pot ;  but  what  was  the  value  of  those  coins  ?  Had  they 
been  forty  or  forty-eight  franc-pieces,  twenty-four  or  twenty 
francs?  Every  creature  in  Limoges  who  had  expectations 
felt  for  the  des  Vanneaulx  in  this  trying  situation.  The  sight 
of  those  fragments  of  crockery-ware  which  once  held  gold 
gave  a  lively  stimulus  to  Limousin  imaginations.  As  for  little 
Pingret,  who  often  came  to  sell  his  vegetables  in  the  market 
himself,  who  lived  on  bread  and  onions,  and  did  not  spend 
three  hundred  francs  in  a  year,  who  never  did  anybody  a  good 
turn,  nor  any  harm  either,  no  one  regretted  him  in  the  least — 
he  had  never  done  a  pennyworth  of  good  to  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Etienne.  As  for  Jeanne  Malassis,  her  heroism  was  con- 
sidered to  be  ill-timed;  the  old  man,  if  he  had  lived,  would 
have  grudged  her  reward ;  altogther,  her  admirers  were  few 
compared  with  the  number  of  those  who  remarked,  "  I  should 
have  slept  soundly  in  her  place,  I  know !  " 

Then  the  curious  and  the  next-of-kin  were  made  aware  of 
the  inconsistencies  of  certain  misers.     The  police,  when  they 


TASCHERON.  56 

came  to  draw  up  the  repoii,  could  find  neither  pen  nor  ink  in 
the  bare,  cold,  dismal,  tumble-down  house.  The  little  old 
man's  horror  of  expense  was  glaringly  evident :  in  the  great 
holes  in  the  roof,  which  let  in  rain  and  snow  as  well  as  light ; 
in  the  moss-covered  cracks  which  rent  the  walls ;  in  the  rotting 
doors  ready  to  drop  from  their  hinges  at  the  least  shock;  in  the 
unoiled  paper  which  did  duty  as  glass  in  the  windows.  There 
was  not  a  window  curtain  in  the  house,  not  a  looking-glass 
over  the  mantel-shelves ;  the  grates  were  chiefly  remarkable 
for  the  absence  of  fire-irons  and  the  accumulation  of  damp 
soot,  a  sort  of  varnish  over  the  handful  of  sticks  or  the  log 
of  wood  which  lay  on  the  hearth.  And  as  to  the  furniture — 
a  few  crippled  chairs  and  maimed  armchairs,  two  beds,  hard 
and  attenuated  (Time  had  adorned  old  Pingret's  bed-curtains 
with  open-work  embroidery  of  a  bold  design),  one  or  two 
cracked  pots  and  riveted  plates,  a  worm-eaten  bureau,  where 
the  old  man  used  to  keep  his  garden  seeds,  household  linen 
thick  with  darns  and  patches — the  furniture,  in  short,  con- 
sisted of  a  mass  of  rags,  which  had  only  a  sort  of  life  kept  in 
them  by  the  spirit  of  their  owner,  and  now  that  he  was  gone, 
they  dropped  to  pieces  and  crumbled  to  powder.  At  the 
first  touch  of  the  brutal  hands  of  the  police  officers  and 
infuriated  next-of-kin  they  evaporated,  heaven  knows  how, 
and  came  to  nameless  ruin  and  an  indefinable  end.  They 
were  not.  Before  the  terrors  of  a  public  auction  they  vanished 
away. 

For  a  long  time  the  greater  part  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
capital  of  Limousin  continued  to  take  an  interest  in  the  hard 
case  of  the  worthy  des  Vanneaulx,  who  had  two  children ; 
but  as  soon  as  justice  appeared  to  have  discovered  the  perpe- 
trator of  the  crime,  this  person  absorbed  all  their  attention, 
he  became  the  hero  of  the  day,  and  the  des  Vanneaulx  were 
relegated  to  the  obscurity  of  the  background. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  month  of  March,  Mme.  Graslin 
had  already  felt  the  discomforts  incidental  to  her  condition. 


M  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

which  could  no  longer  be  concealed.  By  that  time  inquiries 
were  being  made  into  the  crime  committed  in  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Etienne,  but  the  murderer  was  still  at  large.  Veronique 
received  visitors  in  her  bedroom,  whither  her  friends  came  for 
their  game  of  whist.  A  few  days  later  Mme.  Graslin  kept 
her  room  altogether.  More  than  once  already  she  had  been 
seized  with  the  unaccountable  fancies  commonly  attributed  to 
women  with  child.  Her  mother  came  almost  every  day  to 
see  her;  the  two  spent  whole  hours  in  each  other's  society. 

It  was  nine  o'clock.  The  card-tables  were  neglected,  every 
one  was  talking  about  the  murder  and  the  des  Vanneaulx, 
when  the  Vicomte  de  Granville  came  in. 

"  We  have  caught  the  man  who  murdered  old  Pingret ! " 
he  cried  in  high  glee. 

**  And  who  is  it  ?  "     The  question  came  from  all  sides. 

'*  One  of  the  workmen  in  a  porcelain  factory,  a  man  of 
exemplary  conduct,  and  in  a  fair  way  to  make  his  fortune. 
He  is  one  of  your  husband's  old  workmen,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing to  Mme.  Graslin. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  Veronique  asked  faintly. 

"  Jean-Frangois  Tascheron." 

"The  unfortunate  man!"  she  exclaimed.  "Yes.  I  re- 
member seeing  him  several  times.  My  poor  father  recom- 
mended him  to  me  as  a  valuable  hand " 

"He  left  the  place  before  Sauviat  died,"  remarked  old 
Mme.  Sauviat;  "he  went  over  to  the  MM.  Philippart  to 
better  himself.  But  is  my  daughter  well  enough  to  hear 
about  this?,"  she  added,  looking  at  Mme.  Graslin,  who  was 
as  white  as  the  sheets. 

After  that  evening  old  Mother  Sauviat  left  her  house,  and 
in  spite  of  her  seventy  years,  installed  herself  as  her  daugh- 
ter's nurse.  She  did  not  leave  Veronique's  room.  No  matter 
at  what  hour  Mme.  Graslin's  friends  called  to  see  her,  they 
found  the  old  mother  sitting  heroically  at  her  post  by  the  bed- 


TASCHERON.  67 

side,  busied  with  her  eternal  knitting,  brooding  over  her 
V6ronique  as  in  the  days  of  the  smallpox,  answering  for  her 
child,  and  sometimes  denying  her  to  visitors.  The  love 
between  the  mother  and  daughter  was  so  well  known  in 
Limoges  that  people  took  the  old  woman's  ways  as  a  matter 
of  course. 

A  few  days  later,  when  the  Vicomte  de  Granville  began  to 
give  some  of  the  details  of  the  Tascheron  case,  in  which  the 
whole  town  took  an  eager  interest,  thinking  to  interest  the 
invalid,  La  Sauviat  cut  him  short  by  asking  if  he  meant  to 
give  Mme.  Graslin  bad  dreams  again,  but  Veronique  begged 
M.  de  Granville  to  go  on,  fixing  her  eyes  on  his  face.  So  it 
fell  out  that  Mme.  Graslin's  friends  heard  in  her  house  the 
result  of  the  preliminary  examination,  soon  afterwards  made 
public,  at  first-hand  from  the  avocat  general.  Here,  in  a  con- 
densed form,  is  the  substance  of  the  indictment  which  was 
being  drawn  up  by  the  prosecution  : 

Jean-Frangois  Tascheron  was  the  son  of  a  small  farmer 
burdened  with  a  large  family,  who  lived  in  the  township 
of  Montegnac.  Twenty  years  before  the  perpetration  of 
this  crime,  whose  memory  still  lingers  in  Limousin,  Canton 
Montegnac  bore  a  notoriously  bad  character.  It  was  alleged 
in  the  criminal  court  of  Limoges  that  fifty  out  of  every 
hundred  convictions  came  from  the  Montegnac  district. 
Since  1816,  two  years  after  the  arrival  of  the  new  cure, 
M.  Bonnet,  Montegnac  lost  its  old  reputation,  and  no  longer 
sent  up  its  contingent  to  the  assizes.  The  change  was  gen- 
erally set  down  to  M.  Bonnet's  influence  in  the  commune, 
which  had  once  been  a  perfect  hotbed  of  bad  characters  who 
gave  trouble  in  all  the  country  round  about.  Jean-Francois 
Tascheron's  crime  suddenly  restored  Mont6gnac  to  its  former 
unenviable  pre-eminence.  It  happened,  singularly  enough, 
that  the  Tascherons  had  been  almost  the  only  family  in  the 
countryside  which  had  not  departed  from  the  old  exemplary 


68  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

traditions  and  religious  habits  now  fast  dying  out  in  country 
places.  In  them  the  cur6  had  found  a  moral  support  and 
basis  of  operations,  and  naturally  he  thought  a  great  deal  of 
them.  The  whole  family  were  hard  workers,  remarkable  for 
their  honesty  and  the  strong  affection  that  bound  them  to  each 
other ;  Jean-Frangois  Tascheron  had  had  none  but  good  ex- 
amples set  before  him  at  home.  A  praiseworthy  ambition  had 
brought  him  to  Limoges.  He  meant  to  make  a  little  fortune 
honestly  by  a  handicraft,  and  left  the  township,  to  the  regret 
of  his  relations  and  friends,  who  were  very  much  attached  to 
him. 

His  conduct  during  his  two  years  of  apprenticeship  was 
admirable  ;  apparently  no  irregularity  in  his  life  had  foreshad- 
owed the  hideous  crime  for  which  he  forfeited  his  life.  The 
leisure  which  other  workmen  wasted  in  the  wineshop  and 
debauches,  Tascheron  spent  in  study. 

Justice  in  the  provinces  has  plenty  of  time  on  her  hands, 
but  the  most  minute  investigation  threw  no  light  whatever  on 
the  secrets  of  his  existence.  The  landlady  of  Jean  Frangois' 
humble  lodging,  skillfully  questioned,  said  that  she  had  never 
had  such  a  steady  young  man  as  a  lodger.  He  was  pleasant- 
spoken  and  good-tempered,  almost  gay,  as  you  miglit  say. 
About  a  year  ago  a  change  seemed  to  come  over  him.  He 
would  stop  out  all  night  several  times  a  month,  and  often  for 
several  nights  at  a  time.  She  did  not  know  whereabouts  in 
the  town  he  spent  those  nights.  Still,  she  had  sometimes 
thought,  judging  by  the  mud  on  his  boots,  that  her  lodger 
had  been  somewhere  out  in  the  country.  He  used  to  wear 
pumps,  too,  instead  of  hobnailed  boots,  although  he  was 
going  out  of  the  town,  and  before  he  went  he  used  to  shave 
and  scent  himself,  and  put  on  clean  clothes. 

The  examining  magistrate  carried  his  investigation  to  such 
a  length  that  inquiries  were  made  in  houses  of  ill-fame  and 
among  licensed  prostitutes,  but  no  one  knew  anything  of 
Jean-Francois  Tascheron ;  other  inquiries  made  among  the 


TASCHERON.  59 

class  of  factory  operatives  and  shop-girls  met  with  no  better 
success ;  none  of  those  whose  conduct  was  light  had  any  rela- 
tions with  the  accused. 

A  crime  without  any  motive  whatever  is  inconceivable, 
especially  when  the  criminal's  bent  was  apparently  towards 
self-improvement,  while  his  ambitions  argued  higher  ideals 
and  sense  superior  to  that  of  other  workmen.  The  whole 
criminal  department,  like  the  examining  magistrate,  were  fain 
to  find  a  motive  for  the  murder  in  a  passion  for  play  on  Tas- 
cheron's  part ;  but  after  minute  investigation,  it  was  proved 
that  the  accused  had  never  gambled  in  his  life. 

From  the  very  first  Jean-Francois  took  refuge  in  a  system 
of  denial  which  could  not  but  break  down  in  the  face  of 
circumstantial  evidence  when  his  case  should  come  before  a 
jury ;  but  his  manner  of  defending  himself  suggested  the 
intervention  of  some  person  well  acquainted  with  the  law,  or 
gifted  with  no  ordinary  intelligence.  The  evidence  of  his 
guilt,  as  in  most  similar  cases,  was  at  once  unconvincing  and 
yet  too  strong  to  be  set  aside.  The  principal  points  which 
told  against  Tascheron  were  four — his  absence  from  home  on 
the  night  of  the  murder  (he  would  not  say  where  he  spent 
that  night,  and  scorned  to  invent  an  alibi^  ;  a  shred  of  his 
blouse,  torn  without  his  knowledge  during  the  struggle  with 
the  poor  servant-girl,  and  blown  by  the  wind  into  the  tree 
where  it  was  found ;  the  fact  that  he  had  been  seen  hanging 
about  the  house  that  evening  by  people  in  the  suburb,  who 
would  not  have  remembered  this  but  for  the  crime  which 
followed  ;  and,  lastly,  a  false  key  which  he  had  made  to  fit  the 
lock  of  the  garden-gate,  which  was  entered  from  the  fields. 
It  had  been  hidden  rather  ingeniously  in  one  of  the  holes, 
some  two  feet  below  the  surface.  M.  des  Vanneaulx  had 
come  upon  it  while  digging  to  see  whether  by  chance  there 
might  be  a  second  hoard  beneath  the  first.  The  police  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  out  the  man  who  supplied  the  steel,  the 
vise,  and  the  key-file.     This  had  been  their  first  clue,  it  put 


60  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

them  on  Tascheron's  track,  and  finally  they  arrested  him  on 
the  limits  of  the  department  in  a  woods  where  he  was  waiting 
for  the  diligence.  An  hour  later,  and  he  would  have  been  on 
his  way  to  America,  Moreover,  in  spite  of  the  care  with 
which  the  footprints  had  been  erased  in  the  trampled  earth 
and  on  the  muddy  road,  the  rural  policeman  had  found  the 
marks  of  thin  shoes,  clear  and  unmistakable,  in  the  soil. 
Tascheron's  lodgings  were  searched,  and  a  pair  of  pumps 
were  found  which  exactly  corresponded  with  the  impress,  a 
fatal  coincidence  which  confirmed  the  curious  observations 
of  his  landlady. 

Then  the  criminal  investigation  department  saw  another 
influence  at  work  in  the  crime,  and  a  second  and  perhaps  a 
prime  mover  in  the  case.  Tascheron  must  have  had  an 
accomplice,  if  only  for  the  reason  that  it  was  impossible  for 
one  man  to  take  away  such  a  weight  of  coin.  No  man,  how- 
ever strong,  could  carry  twenty-five  thousand  francs  in  gold 
very  far.  If  each  of  the  pots  had  held  so  much,  he  must 
have  made  four  journeys.  Now,  a  singular  accident  deter- 
mined the  very  hour  when  the  deed  was  done.  Jeanne 
Malassis,  springing  out  of  bed  in  terror  at  her  master's 
shrieks,  had  overturned  the  table  on  which  her  watch  lay 
(the  one  present  which  the  miser  had  made  her  in  five  years). 
The  fall  had  broken  the  mainspring,  and  stopped  the  hands 
at  two  o'clock. 

In  mid-March,  the  time  of  the  murder,  the  sun  rises  be- 
tween five  and  six  in  the  morning.  So  on  the  hypothesis 
traced  out  by  the  police  and  the  department,  it  was  clearly 
impossible  that  Tascheron  should  have  carried  off  the  money 
unaided  and  alone,  even  for  a  short  distance,  in  the  time. 
The  evident  pains  which  the  man  had  taken  to  erase  other 
footprints  to  the  neglect  of  his  own,  also  indicated  an  un- 
known assistant. 

Justice,  driven  to  invent  some  reason  for  the  crime,  decided 
on  a  frantic  passion  for  some  woman,  and,  as  she  was  not  to 


TASCHERON.  61 

be  found  among  the  lower  classes,  forensic  sagacity  looked 
higher. 

Could  it  be  some  woman  of  the  bourgeoisie  who,  feeling 
sure  of  the  discretion  of  a  lover  of  so  puritanical  a  cut,  had 
read  with  him  the  opening  chapters  of  a  romance  which  had 
ended  in  this  ugly  tragedy  ?  There  were  circumstances  in 
the  case  which  almost  bore  out  this  theory.  The  old  man 
had  been  killed  by  blows  from  a  spade.  The  murder,  it 
seemed,  was  the  result  of  chance,  a  sudden  fortuitous  develo])- 
ment,  and  not  a  part  of  a  deliberate  plan.  The  two  lovers 
might,  perhaps,  have  concerted  the  theft,  but  not  the  second 
crime.  Then  Tascheron  the  lover  and  Pingret  the  raiser  had 
crossed  each  other's  paths,  and  in  the  thick  darkness  of 
night  two  inexorable  passions  met  on  the  same  spot,  both 
attracted  thither  by  gold. 

Justice  devised  a  new  plan  for  obtaining  light  on  these  dark 
facts.  Jean-Francois  had  a  favorite  sister ;  her  they  arrested 
and  examined  privately,  hoping  in  this  way  to  come  by  a 
knowledge  of  the  mysteries  of  her  brother's  private  life. 
Denise  Tascheron  denied  all  knowledge  of  his  affairs ;  pru- 
dence dictating  a  system  of  negative  answers  which  led  her 
questioners  to  suspect  that  she  really  knew  the  reasons  of  the 
crime.  Denise  Tascheron,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  it,  but  for  the  rest  of  her  days  she  was  to  be 
under  a  cloud  in  consequence  of  her  detention. 

The  accused  showed  a  spirit  very  unusual  in  a  workingman. 
He  was  too  clever  for  the  cleverest  "  sheep  of  the  prisons" 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact — though  he  did  not  discover 
that  he  had  to  do  with  a  spy.  The  keener  intelligences 
among  the  magistracy  saw  in  him  a  murderer  through  passion, 
not  through  necessity,  like  the  common  herd  of  criminals 
who  pass  by  way  of  the  petty  sessions  and  the  hulks  to  a 
capital  charge.  He  was  shrewdly  plied  with  questions  put 
with  this  idea;  but  the  man's  wonderful  discretion  left  the 
magistrates  much  where  they  were  before.     The  romantic  but 


62  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

plausible  theory  of  a  passion  for  a  woman  of  higher  rank,  once 
admitted,  insidious  questions  were  suddenly  asked  more  than 
once ;  but  Jean-Francois  discretion  issued  victorious  from  all 
the  mental  tortures  which  the  ingenuity  of  an  examining  mag- 
istrate could  inflict. 

As  a  final  expedient,  Tascheron  was  told  that  the  person 
for  whom  he  had  committed  the  crime  had  been  discovered 
and  arrested ;  but  his  face  underwent  no  change,  he  contented 
himself  with  the  ironical  retort,  "I  should  be  very  glad  to  see 
that  person." 

When  these  details  became  known,  there  were  plenty  of 
people  who  shared  the  magistrate's  suspicions,  confirmed  to 
all  appearance  by  the  behavior  of  the  accused,  who  main- 
tained the  silence  of  a  savage.  An  all-absorbing  interest 
attached  to  a  young  man  who  had  come  to  be  a  problem. 
Every  one  will  understand  how  the  public  curiosity  was  stimu- 
lated by  the  facts  of  the  case,  and  how  eagerly  reports  of  the 
examination  were  followed  ;  for,  in  spite  of  all  the  probings 
of  the  police,  the  case  for  the  prosecution  remained  on  the 
brink  of  a  mystery,  which  the  authorities  did  not  dare  to 
penetrate,  beset  with  dangers  as  it  was.  In  some  cases  a  half- 
certainty  is  not  enough  for  the  magistracy.  So  it  was  hoped 
that  the  buried  truth  would  arise  and  come  to  light  at  the 
great  day  of  the  assizes,  an  occasion  when  criminals  fre- 
quently lose  their  heads. 

It  happened  that  M.  Graslin  was  on  the  jury  empaneled  for 
the  occasion,  and  Vdronique  could  not  but  hear  through  him 
or  through  M.  de  Granville  the  whole  story  of  a  trial  which 
kept  Limousin,  and  indeed  all  France,  in  excitement  for  a 
fortnight.  The  behavior  of  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  justified 
the  romances  founded  on  the  conjectures  of  justice  which 
were  current  in  the  town ;  more  than  once  his  eyes  were 
turned  searchingly  on  the  bevy  of  women  privileged  to  enjoy 
the  spectacle  of  a  sensational  drama  in  real  life.  Every  time 
that  the  clear  impenetrable  gaze  was  turned  on  the  fashionable 


TASCHERON.  63 

audience,  it  prodnced  a  flutter  of  consternation,  so  greatly 
did  every  woman  fear  lest  she  might  seem  to  inquisitive  eyes 
in  the  court  to  be  the  prisoner's  partner  in  guilt. 

The  useless  efforts  of  the  criminal  investigation  department 
were  then  made  public,  and  Limoges  was  informed  of  the  pre- 
cautions taken  by  the  accused  to  ensure  the  complete  success 
of  his  crime. 

Some  months  before  that  fatal  night,  Jean-Francois  had  pro- 
cured a  passport  for  North  America.  Clearly  he  had  meant 
to  leave  France.  Clearly,  therefore,  the  woman  in  the  case 
must  be  married  ;  for  there  was,  of  course,  no  object  to  be 
gained  by  eloping  with  a  young  girl.  Perhaps  it  was  a  desire 
to  maintain  the  fair  unknown  in  luxury  which  had  prompted 
the  crime ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  a  search  through  the  regis- 
ters of  the  administration  had  discovered  that  no  passport  for 
that  country  had  been  made  out  in  a  woman's  name.  The 
police  had  even  investigated  the  registers  in  Paris  as  well  as 
those  of  the  neighboring  perfectures,  but  fruitlessly. 

As  the  case  proceeded,  every  least  detail  brought  to  light 
revealed  profound  forethought  on  the  part  of  a  man  of  no 
ordinary  intelligence.  While  the  most  virtuous  ladies  of 
Limousin  explained  the  sufficiently  inexplicable  use  of  even- 
ing shoes  for  a  country  excursion  on  muddy  roads  and  heavy 
soil,  by  the  plea  that  it  was  necessary  to  spy  upon  old  Pingret ; 
the  least  coxcombically  given  of  men  were  delighted  to  point 
out  how  eminently  a  pair  of  thin  pumps  favored  noiseless 
movements  about  a  house,  scaling  windows,  and  stealing  along 
corridors. 

Evidently  Jean-Francois  Tascheron  and  his  mistress,  a 
young,  romantic,  and  beautiful  woman  (for  every  one  drew 
a  superb  portrait  of  the  lady),  had  contemplated  forgery,  and 
the  words  "and  wife  "  were  to  be  filled  in  after  his  name  on 
the  passport. 

Card-parties  were  broken  up  during  these  evenings  by  mali- 
cious conjectures  and  comments.     People  began  to  cast  about 


64  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

for  the  names  of  women  who  went  to  Paris  during  March, 
1829 ;  or  of  others  who  might  be  supposed  to  have  made  pre- 
parations openly  or  secretly  for  flight.  The  trial  supplied 
Limoges  with  a  second  Fualdes  case,  with  an  unknown  Mme. 
Manson  by  way  of  improvement  on  the  first.  Never,  indeed, 
was  any  country  town  so  puzzled  as  Limoges  after  the  court 
rose  each  day.  People's  very  dreams  turned  on  the  trial. 
Everything  that  transpired  raised  the  accused  in  their  eyes ; 
his  answers,  skillfully  turned  over  and  over,  expanded  and 
edited,  supplied  a  theme  for  endless  argument.  One  of  the 
jury  asked,  for  instance,  why  Tascheron  had  taken  a  passport 
for  America,  to  which  the  prisoner  replied  that  he  meant  to 
open  a  porcelain  factory  there.  In  this  way  he  screened  his 
accomplice  without  quitting  his  line  of  defense,  and  supplied 
conjecture  with  a  plausible  and  sufficient  motive  for  the  crime 
in  this  ambition  of  his. 

In  the  thick  of  these  disputes,  it  was  impossible  that  Veron- 
ique's  friends  should  not  also  try  to  account  for  Tascheron's 
close  reserve.  One  evening  she  seemed  better  than  usual. 
The  doctor  had  prescribed  exercise ;  and  that  very  morning 
V^ronique,  leaning  on  her  mother's  arm,  had  walked  out  as 
far  as  Mme.  Sauviat's  cottage,  and  rested  there  a  while.  When 
she  came  home  again,  she  tried  to  sit  up  until  her  husband 
returned,  but  Graslin  was  late,  and  did  not  come  back  from 
the  court  till  eight  o'clock;  his  wife  waited  on  him  at  din- 
ner after  her  usual  custom,  and  in  this  way  she  could  not 
help  but  hear  the  discussion  between  her  husband  and  his 
friends. 

"  We  should  have  known  more  about  this  if  my  poor  father 
were  still  alive,"  said  Veronique,  *'  or  perhaps  the  man  would 

not  have  committed  the  crime But  I  notice  that  you 

have  all  of  you  taken  one  strange  notion  into  your  heads ! 
You  will  have  it  that  there  is  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  this 
business  (as  far  as  that  goes  I  myself  am  of  your  opinion),  but 
why  do  you  think  that  she  is  a  married  woman  ?    Why  cannot 


TASCHERON.  65 

he  have  loved  some  girl  whose  father  and  mother  refused  to 
listen  to  him?" 

"Sooner  or  later  a  young  girl  might  have  been  legitimately 
his,"  returned  M.  de  Granville.  "  Tascheron  is  not  wanting 
in  patience ;  he  would  have  had  time  to  make  an  independ- 
ence honestly;  he  could  have  waited  until  the  girl  was  old 
enough  to  marry  without  her  parents*  consent." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  such  a  marriage  was  possible,"  said 
Mme.  Graslin.  "  Then  how  is  it  that  no  one  had  the  least 
suspicion  of  it,  here  in  a  place  where  everybody  knows  the 
affairs  of  everybody  else,  and  sees  all  that  goes  on  in  his 
neighbor's  house  ?  Two  people  cannot  fall  in  love  without 
at  any  rate  seeing  each  other  or  being  seen  of  each  other ! 
What  do  you  lawyers  think?"  she  continued,  looking  the 
avocat  general  full  in  the  eyes. 

' '  We  all  think  that  the  woman  must  be  the  wife  of  some 
tradesman,  a  man  in  business." 

"I  am  of  a  totally  opposite  opinion,"  said  Mme.  Graslin. 
"That  kind  of  woman  has  not  sentiments  sufficiently  lofty," 
a  retort  which  drew  all  eyes  upon  her.  Every  one  waited  for 
the  explanation  of  the  paradox. 

"At  night,"  she  said,  "when  I  do  not  sleep,  or  when  I 
lie  in  bed  in  the  daytime,  I  cannot  help  thinking  over  this 
mysterious  business,  and  I  believe  I  can  guess  Tascheron's 
motives.  These  are  my  reasons  for  thinking  that  it  is  a  girl, 
and  not  a  woman  in  the  case.  A  married  woman  has  other 
interests,  if  not  other  feelings ;  she  has  a  divided  heart  in 
her,  she  cannot  rise  to  the  full  height  of  the  exaltation  in- 
spired by  a  love  so  passionate  as  this.  She  must  never  have 
borne  a  child  if  she  is  to  conceive  a  love  in  which  maternal 
instincts  are  blended  with  those  which  spring  from  desire. 
It  is  quite  clear  that  some  woman  who  wished  to  be  a  sustain- 
ing power  to  him  has  loved  this  man.  That  unknown  woman 
must  have  brought  to  her  love  the  genius  which  inspires  artists 
and  poets,  aye,  and  women  also,  but  in  another  form,  for  it 
5 


66  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

is  a  woman's  destiny  to  create,  not  things,  but  men.  Our 
creations  are  our  children,  our  children  are  our  pictures,  our 
books  and  statues.  Are  we  not  artists  when  we  shape  their 
lives  from  the  first  ?  So  I  am  sure  that  if  she  is  not  a  girl, 
she  is  not  a  mother;  I  would  stake  my  head  upon  it.  Law- 
yers should  have  a  woman's  instinct  to  apprehend  the  infinite 
subtle  touches  which  continually  escape  them  in  so  many 
cases. 

"If  I  had  been  your  substitute,"  she  continued,  turning 
to  M.  de  Granville,  "we  should  have  discovered  the  guilty 
woman,  always  supposing  that  she  is  guilty.  I  think,  with 
M.  rAbb6  Dutheil,  that  the  two  lovers  had  planned  to  go  to 
America,  and  to  live  there  on  poor  Pingret's  money,  as  they 
had  none  of  their  own.  The  theft,  of  course,  led  to  the 
murder,  the  usual  fatal  consequence  of  the  fear  of  detec- 
tion and  death.  And  it  would  be  worthy  of  you,"  she 
added,  with  a  suppliant  glance  at  the  young  lawyer,  "to 
withdraw  the  charge  of  malice  aforethought ;  you  would  save 
the  miserable  man's  life.  He  is  so  great  in  spite  of  his  crime, 
that  he  would  perhaps  expiate  his  sins  by  some  magnificent 
repentance.  The  works  of  repentance  should  be  taken  into 
account  in  the  deliberations  of  justice.  In  these  days  there 
are  no  better  ways  of  atoning  an  offense  than  by  the  loss  of 
a  head,  or  by  founding,  as  in  olden  times,  a  Milan  cathe- 
dral?" 

"Madame,  your  ideas  are  sublime,"  returned  the  lawyer; 
"  but  if  the  averment  of  malice  aforethought  were  withdrawn, 
Tascheron  would  still  be  tried  for  his  life  ;  and  it  is  a  case  of 
aggravated  theft,  it  was  committed  at  night>  the  walls  were 
scaled,  the  premises  broken  into " 

"Then,  do  you  think  he  will  be  condemned?"  she  asked, 
lowering  her  eyelids. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it.     The  prosecution  has  the  best  of  it." 

A  light  shudder  ran  through  Mme.  Graslin.  Her  dress 
rustled. 


I 


TASCHERON.  67 

**  I  feel  cold,"  she  said. 

She  took  her  mother's  arm  and  went  to  bed. 

"  She  is  much  better  to-day,"  said  her  friends. 

The  next  morning  Veronique  was  at  death's  door.  She 
smiled  at  her  doctor's  surprise  at  finding  her  in  an  almost 
dying  state. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  the  walk  would  do  me  no  good?  " 
she  said. 

Ever  since  the  opening  of  the  trial  there  had  been  no  trace 
of  either  swagger  or  hypocrisy  in  Tascheron's  attitude.  The 
doctor,  always  with  a  view  to  diverting  his  patient's  mind, 
tried  to  explain  this  attitude  out  of  which  the  counsel  for  the 
defense  made  capital  for  his  client.  The  counsel's  cleverness, 
the  doctor  opined,  had  dazzled  the  accused,  who  imagined 
that  he  should  escape  the  capital  sentence.  Now  and  then  an 
expression  crossed  his  face  which  spoke  plainly  of  hopes  of 
some  coming  happiness  greater  than  mere  acquittal  or  reprieve. 
The  whole  previous  life  of  this  man  of  twenty-three  was  such 
a  flat  contradiction  to  the  deeds  which  brought  it  to  a  close 
that  his  champions  put  forward  his  behavior  as  a  conclusive 
argument.  In  fact,  the  clues  spun  by  the  police  into  a  stout 
hypothesis  fit  to  hang  a  man  dwindled  so  pitiably  when  woven 
into  the  romance  of  the  defense,  that  the  prisoner's  counsel 
fought  for  his  client's  life  with  some  prospect  of  success.  To 
save  him  he  shifted  the  ground  of  the  combat,  and  fought  the 
battle  out  on  the  question  of  malice  aforethought.  It  was 
admitted,  without  prejudice,  that  the  robbery  had  been 
planned  beforehand,  but  contended  that  the  double  murder 
had  been  the  result  of  an  unexpected  resistance  in  both  cases. 
The  issue  looked  doubtful ;  neither  side  had  made  good  their 
case. 

When  the  doctor  went,  the  avocat  general  came  in  as  usual 
to  see  Veronique  before  he  went  to  the  court. 

"  I  have  read  the  counsel's  speeches  yesterday,"  she  told 


68  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

him.  "  To-day  the  other  side  will  reply:  I  am  so  very  much 
interested  in  the  prisoner  that  I  should  like  him  to  be  saved. 
Could  you  not  forego  a  triumph  for  once  in  your  life  ?  Let 
the  counsel  for  the  defense  gain  the  day.  Come,  make  me  a 
present  of  this  life,  and — perhaps — some  day  mine  shall  be 

yours There  is  a  doubt  after  that  fine  speech  of  Tasche- 

ron's  counsel;  well,  then,  why  not " 

''Your  voice  is  quivering "  said  the  Vicomte,  almost 

taken  by  surprise. 

"  Do  you  know  why?  "  she  asked.  "  My  husband  has  just 
pointed  out  a  coincidence — hideous  for  a  sensitive  nature  like 
mine — a  thing  that  is  likely  to  cause  me  my  death.  You  will 
give  the  order  for  his  head  to  fall  just  about  the  time  when 
my  child  will  be  born." 

"Can  I  reform  the  Code?"  asked  the  public  prosecutor. 

"There,  go!  You  do  not  know  how  to  love!"  she 
answered,  and  closed  her  eyes. 

She  lay  back  on  her  pillow,  and  dismissed  the  lawyer  with 
an  imperative  gesture. 

M.  Graslin  pleaded  hard,  but  in  vain,  for  an  acquittal,  ad- 
vancing an  argument,  first  suggested  to  him  by  his  wife,  and 
taken  up  by  two  of  his  friends  on  the  jury :  "  If  we  spare  the 
man's  life,  the  des  Vanneaulx  will  recover  Pingret's  money." 
This  irresistible  argument  told  upon  the  jury,  and  divided 
them — seven  for  acquittal  as  against  five.  As  they  failed  to 
agree,  the  president  and  assessors  were  obliged  to  add  their 
suffrages,  and  they  were  on  the  side  of  the  minority.  Jean- 
Francois  Tascheron  was  found  guilty  of  murder. 

When  sentence  was  passed,  Tascheron  burst  into  a  blind 
fury,  natural  enough  in  a  man  full  of  strength  and  life,  but 
seldom  seen  in  court  when  it  is  an  innocent  man  who  is  con- 
demned. It  seemed  to  every  one  who  saw  it  that  the  drama 
was  not  brought  to  an  end  by  the  sentence.  So  obstinate  a 
struggle  (as  often  happens  in  such  cases)  gave  rise  to  two 
diametrically  opposite  opinions  as  to  the  guilt  of  the  central 


TASCHERON.  69 

figure  in  it.  Some  saw  oppressed  innocence  in  him,  others  a 
criminal  justly  punished.  The  Liberal  party  felt  it  incumbent 
upon  them  to  believe  in  Tascheron's  innocence ;  it  was  not 
so  much  conviction  on  their  part  as  a  desire  to  annoy  those  in 
office. 

"What?"  cried  they.  "  Is  a  man  to  be  cqndemned  be- 
cause his  foot  happens  to  suit  the  size  of  a  footmark  ?  Be- 
cause, forsooth,  he  was  not  at  his  lodgings  at  the  time  ?  (As 
if  any  young  fellow  would  not  die  sooner  than  compromise  a 
woman!)  Because  he  borrowed  tools  and  bought  steel? — 
(for  it  has  not  been  proved  that  he  made  the  key).  Because 
some  one  finds  a  blue  rag  in  a  tree,  where  old  Pingret  very 
likely  put  it  himself  to  scare  the  sparrows,  and  it  happens  to 
match  a  slit  made  in  the  blouse?  Take  a  man's  life  on  such 
grounds  as  these  !  And,  after  all,  Jean-Francois  has  denied 
every  charge,  and  the  prosecution  did  not  produce  any  wit- 
ness who  had  seen  him  commit  the  crime." 

Then  they  fell  to  corroborating,  amplifying,  and  paraphras- 
ing the  speeches  made  by  the  prisoner's  counsel  and  his  line 
of  defense.  As  for  Pingret ;  what  was  Pingret  ?  A  money- 
box which  had  been  broken  open ;  so  said  the  freethinkers. 

A  few  so-called  Progressives,  who  did  not  recognize  the 
sacred  laws  of  property  (which  the  Saint-Si monians  had 
already  attacked  in  the  abstract  region  of  economical  theory), 
went  further  still. 

"Old  Pingret,"  said  these,  "  was  the  prime  author  of  the 
crime.  The  man  was  robbing  his  country  by  hoarding  the 
gold.  What  a  lot  of  businesses  that  idle  capital  might  have 
fertilized !  He  had  thwarted  industry ;  he  was  properly 
punished." 

As  for  the  servant-girl,  they  were  sorry  for  her ;  and 
Denise,  who  had  baffled  the  ingenuity  of  the  lawyers,  the  girl 
who  never  opened  her  mouth  at  the  trial  without  long  ponder- 
ing over  what  she  meant  to  say,  excited  the  keenest  interest. 
She  became  a  figure  comparable,  in  another  sense,  with  Jeanie 


70  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Deans,  whom  she  resembled  in  charm  of  character,  modesty, 
in  lier  religious  nature  and  personal  comeliness.  So  Francois 
Tascheron  still  continued  to  excite  the  curiosity  not  merely  of 
Limoges,  but  of  the  whole  department.  Some  romantic 
women  openly  expressed  their  admiration  of  him. 

"  If  there  is  a  love  for  some  woman  about  him  at  the 
bottom  of  all  this,"  said  these  ladies,  "  the  man  is  certainly 
no  ordinary  man.     You  will  see  that  he  will  die  bravely  !  " 

Would  he  confess?  Would  he  keep  silence?  Bets  were 
taken  on  the  question.  Since  that  outburst  of  rage  with 
which  lie  received  his  doom  (an  outburst  which  might  have 
had  a  fatal  ending  for  several  persons  in  court  but  for  the 
intervention  of  the  police),  the  criminal  threatened  violence 
indiscriminately  to  all  and  sundry  who  came  near  him,  and 
with  the  ferocity  of  a  wild  beast.  The  gaoler  was  obliged  to 
put  him  in  a  strait  waistcoat ;  for  if  he  was  dangerous  to 
others,  he  seemed  quite  as  likely  to  attempt  his  own  life. 
Tascheron's  despair,  thus  restrained  from  all  overt  acts  of 
violence,  found  a  vent  in  convulsive  struggles  which  frightened 
the  warders,  and  in  language  which,  in  the  middle  ages, 
would  have  been  set  down  to  demoniacal  possession. 

He  was  so  young  that  women  were  moved  to  pity  that  a 
life  so  filled  with  an  all-engrossing  love  should  be  cut  off. 
Quite  recently,  and  as  if  written  for  the  occasion,  Victor 
Hugo's  sombre  elegy  and  vain  plea  for  the  abolition  of  the 
death-penalty  (that  support  of  the  fabric  of  society)  had 
appeared,  and  Le  Dernier  jour  cTun  Condamne  was  the  order 
of  the  day  in  all  conversations.  Then  finally,  above  the 
boards  of  the  assizes,  set,  as  it  were,  upon  a  pedestal,  rose  the 
invisible  mysterious  figure  of  a  woman,  standing  there  with 
her  feet  dipped  in  blood ;  condemned  to  suffer  heart-rending 
anguish,  yet  outwardly  to  live  in  unbroken  household  peace. 
At  her  every  one  pointed  the  finger — and  yet,  they  almost 
admired  that  Limousin  Medea  with  the  inscrutable  brow  and 
the  heart  of  steel  in  her  white  breast.     Perhaps  she  dwelt  in 


TASCHERON.  71 

the  home  of  this  one  or  that,  and  was  the  sister,  cousin,  wife, 
or  daughter  of  such  an  one.  What  a  horror  in  their  midst ! 
It  is  in  the  domain  of  the  imagination,  according  to  Napo- 
leon, that  the  power  of  the  unknown  is  incalculably  great. 

As  for  the  des  Vanneaulx's  hundred  thousand  francs,  all  the 
efforts  of  the  police  had  not  succeeded  in  recovering  the 
money ;  and  the  criminal's  continued  silence  was  a  strange 
defeat  for  the  prosecution.  M.  de  Granville  (in  the  place  of 
the  public  prosecutor  then  absent  at  the  Chamber  of  Deputies) 
tried  the  commonplace  stratagem  of  inducing  the  condemned 
man  to  believe  that  the  penalty  might  be  commuted  if  a  full 
confession  were  made.  But  the  lawyer  had  scarcely  showed 
himself  before  the  prisoner  greeted  him  with  furious  yells, 
and  epileptic  contortions,  and  eyes  ablaze  with  anger  and 
regret  that  he^could  not  kill  his  enemy.  Justice  could  only 
hope  that  the  Church  might  effect  something  at  the  last 
moment.  Again  and  again  the  des  Vanneaulx  applied  to  the 
Abbe  Pascal,  the  prison  chaplain.  The  Abbe  Pascal  was  not 
deficient  in  the  peculiar  quality  which  gains  a  priest  a  hearing 
from  a  prisoner.  In  the  name  of  religion,  he  braved  Tas- 
cheron's  transports  of  rage,  and  strove  to  utter  a  few  words 
amidst  the  storms  that  convulsed  that  powerful  nature.  But 
the  struggle  between  spiritual  paternity  and  the  tempest  of 
uncontrolled  passions  was  too  much  for  poor  Abbe  Pascal ;  he 
retired  from  it  defeated  and  worn  out. 

"  That  is  a  man  who  has  found  his  heaven  here  on  earth," 
the  old  priest  murmured  softly  to  himself. 

Then  little  Mme.  des  Vanneaulx  thought  of  approaching  the 
criminal  herself,  and  took  counsel  of  her  friends.  The  Sieur 
des  Vanneaulx  talked  of  compromise.  Being  at  his  wits'  end, 
he  even  betook  himself  to  M.  de  Granville,  and  suggested 
that  he  (M.  de  Granville)  should  intercede  with  the  King  for 
his  uncle's  murderer  if  only,  if  only,  the  murderer  would  hand 
over  those  hundred  thousand  francs  to  the  proper  persons. 
The  avocat  general  XQioii&d  that  the  King's  majesty  would  not 


72  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Stoop  to  haggle  with  criminals.  Then  the  des  Vanneaulx 
tried  Tascheron's  counsel,  offering  him  twenty  per  cent,  on 
the  total  amount  as  an  inducement  to  recover  it  for  them. 
This  lawyer  was  the  one  creature  whom  Tascheron  could  see 
without  flying  into  a  fury;  him,  therefore,  the  next-of-kin 
empowered  to  offer  ten  per  cent,  to  the  murderer,  to  be  paid 
over  to  the  man's  family.  But  in  spite  of  the  mutilations 
which  these  beavers  were  prepared  to  make  in  their  heritage, 
in  spite  of  the  lawyer's  eloquence,  Tascheron  continued  obdu- 
rate. Then  the  des  Vanneaulx,  waxing  wroth,  anathematized 
the  condemned  man  and  called  down  curses  upon  his  head. 

"  He  is  not  only  a  murderer,  he  has  no  sense  of  decency  !  " 
cried  they,  in  all  seriousness,  ignorant  though  they  were  of 
the  famous  Plaint  of  Fualdis.  The  Abbe  Pascal  had  totally 
failed,  the  application  for  a  reversal  of  judgment  seemed  likely 
to  succeed  no  better,  the  man  would  go  to  the  guillotine,  and 
then  all  would  be  lost. 

**  What  good  will  our  money  be  to  him  where  he  is  going?  " 
they  wailed.  "  A  murder  you  can  understand,  but  to  steal  a 
thing  that  is  of  no  use  !  The  thing  is  inconceivable.  What 
times  we  live  in,  to  be  sure,  when  people  of  quality  take  an 
interest  in  such  a  bandit !     He  does  not  deserve  it." 

"  He  has  very  little  sense  of  honor,"  said  Mme.  des  Van- 
neaulx. 

"  Still,  suppose  that  giving  up  the  money  should  compro- 
mise his  sweetheart !  "  suggested  an  old  maid. 

"  We  would  keep  his  secret,"  cried  the  Sieur  des  Vanneaulx. 

"But  then  you  would  become  accessories  after  the  fact," 
objected  a  lawyer. 

"  Oh  !  the  scamp  !  "  This  was  the  Sieur  des  Vanneaulx's 
conclusion  of  the  whole  matter. 

The  des  Vanneaulx's  debates  were  reported  with  some 
amusement  to  Mme.  Graslin  by  one  of  her  circle,  a  very 
clever  woman,  a  dreamer  and  idealist,  for  whom  everything 
must  be   faultless.      The  speaker  regretted   the   condemned 


TASCHERON.  73 

man's  fury ;  she  would  have  had  him  cold,  calm,  and  dig- 
nified. 

"Do  you  not  see,"  said  Veronique,  "that  he  is  thrusting 
temptation  aside  and  baffling  their  efforts.  He  is  deliberately 
acting  like  a  wild  beast," 

"Besides,"  objected  the  Parisienne  in  exile,  "he  is  not  a 
gentleman,  he  is  only  a  common  man." 

"  If  he  had  been  a  gentleman,  it  would  have  been  all  over 
with  that  unknown  woman  long  ago,"  Mme.  Graslin  answered. 

These  events,  twisted  and  tortured  in  drawing-rooms  and 
family  circles,  made  to  bear  endless  constructions,  picked  to 
pieces  by  the  most  expert  tongues  in  the  town,  all  contributed 
to  invest  the  criminal  with  a  painful  interest,  when,  two 
months  later,  the  appeal  for  mercy  was  rejected  by  the 
Supreme  Court.  How  would  he  bear  himself  in  his  last 
moments?  He  had  boasted  that  he  would  make  so  desperate 
a  fight  for  his  life  that  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  lose  it. 
Would  he  confess?  Would  his  conduct  belie  his  language? 
Which  side  would  win  their  wagers?  Are  you  going  to  be 
there?  Are  you  not  going?  How  are  we  to  go?  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  distance  from  the  prison  of  Limoges  to  the 
place  of  execution  is  very  short,  sparing  the  dreadful  ordeal 
of  a  long  transit  to  the  prisoner,  but  also  limiting  the  number 
of  fashionable  spectators.  The  prison  is  in  the  same  building 
as  the  Palais  de  Justice,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  du  Palais 
and  the  Rue  du  Pont-Herisson.  The  Rue  du  Palais  is  the  direct 
continuation  of  the  short  Rue  de  Monte-a-Regret  which  leads 
to  the  Place  d' Aine  or  des  Arenes,  where  executions  take  place 
(hence,  of  course,  its  name).  The  way,  as  has  been  said,  is 
very  short,  consequently  there  are  not  many  houses  along  it, 
and  but  few  windows.  What  persons  of  fashion  would  care 
to  mingle  with  the  crowd  in  the  square  on  such  an  occasion  ? 

But  the  execution  expected  from  day  to  day  was  day  after 
day  put  off,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  the  town,  and  for  the 
following   reasons:      The  pious  resignation  of  the  greatest 


74  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

scoundrels  on  their  way  to  death  is  a  triumph  reserved  for  the 
Church,  and  a  spectacle  which  seldom  fails  to  impress  the 
crowd.  Setting  the  interests  of  Christianity  totally  aside 
(although  this  is  a  principle  never  lost  sight  of  by  the  Church), 
the  condemned  man's  repentance  is  too  strong  a  testimony  to 
the  power  of  religion  for  the  clergy  not  to  feel  that  a  failure 
on  these  conspicuous  occasions  is  a  heart-breaking  misfortune. 
This  feeling  was  aggravated  in  1829,  for  party  spirit  ran  high 
and  poisoned  everything,  however  small,  which  had  any  bear- 
ing on  politics.  The  Liberals  were  in  high  glee  at  the  pros- 
pect of  a  public  collapse  of  the  "  priestly  party,"  an  epithet 
invented  by  Montlosier,  a  Royalist  who  went  over  to  the 
Constitutionals  and  was  carried  by  his  new  associates  further 
than  he  intended.  A  party,  in  its  corporate  capacity,  is 
guilty  of  disgraceful  actions  which  in  an  individual  would  be 
infamous,  and  so  it  happens  that  when  one  man  stands  out 
conspicuous  as  the  expression  and  incarnation  of  that  party, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  crowd  he  is  apt  to  become  a  Robespierre,  a 
Judge  Jeffreys,  a  Laubardemont — a  sort  of  altar  of  expiation 
to  which  others  equally  guilty  attach  ex  votes  in  secret. 

There  was  an  understanding  between  the  episcopal  authori- 
ties and  the  police  authorities,  and  still  the  execution  was  put 
off,  partly  to  secure  a  triumph  for  religion,  but  quite  as  much 
for  another  reason — by  the  aid  of  religion  justice  hoped  to 
arrive  at  the  truth.  The  power  of  the  public  prosecutor, 
however,  had  its  limits  ;  sooner  or  later  the  sentence  must  be 
carried  out ;  and  the  very  Liberals  who  insisted,  for  the  sake 
of  opposition,  on  Tascheron's  innocence,  and  had  tried  to 
upset  the  case,  now  began  to  grumble  at  the  delay.  Opposi- 
tion, when  systematic,  is  apt  to  fall  into  inconsistencies ;  for 
the  point  in  question  is  not  to  be  in  the  right,  but  to  have  a 
stone  always  ready  to  sling  at  authority.  So  towards  the 
beginning  of  August,  the  hand  of  authority  was  forced  by  the 
clamor  (often  a  chance  sound  echoed  by  empty  heads)  called 
public  opinion.     The  execution  was  announced. 


TASCHERON.  76 

In  this  extremity  the  Abbe  Dutheil  took  it  upon  himself  to 
suggest  a  last  resource  to  the  bishop.  One  result  of  the  suc- 
cess of  this  plan  will  be  the  introduction  of  another  actor  in 
the  judicial  drama,  the  extraordinary  personage  who  forms  a 
connecting  link  between  the  different  groups  in  it ;  the  greatest 
of  all  figures  in  this  Scene ;  the  guide  who  should  hereafter 
bring  Mme.  Graslin  on  a  stage  where  her  virtues  were  to  shine 
forth  with  the  brightest  lustre ;  where  she  would  exhibit  a  great 
and  noble  charity  and  act  the  part  of  a  Christian  and  a  min- 
istering angel. 

The  bishop's  palace  at  Limoges  stands  on  the  hillside  above 
the  Vienne.  The  gardens,  laid  out  in  terraces  supported  by 
solidly-built  walls,  crowned  by  balustrades,  descend  stepwise, 
following  the  fall  of  the  land  to  the  river.  The  sloping  ridge 
rises  high  enough  to  give  the  spectator  on  the  opposite  bank 
the  impression  that  the  Faubourg  Saint-Etienne  nestles  at  the 
foot  of  the  lowest  terrace  of  the  bishop's  garden.  Thence, 
as  you  walk  in  one  direction,  you  look  out  across  the  river, 
and  in  the  other  along  its  course  through  the  broad  fertile 
landscape.  When  the  Vienne  has  flowed  westward  past  the 
palace  gardens,  it  takes  a  sudden  turn  towards  Limoges,  skirt- 
ing the  Faubourg  Saint-Martial  in  a  graceful  curve.  A  little 
further,  and  beyond  the  suburb,  it  passes  a  charming  country 
house  called  the  Cluzeau.  You  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
walls  from  the  nearest  point  of  the  nearest  terrace,  a  trick  of 
the  perspective  uniting  them  with  the  church  towers  of  the 
suburb.  Opposite  the  Cluzeau  lies  the  island  in  the  river, 
with  its  indented  shores,  its  thickly  growing  poplars  and  forest 
trees,  the  island  which  Veronique  in  her  girlhood  called  the 
Isle  of  France.  Eastward,  the  low  hills  shut  in  the  horizon 
like  the  walls  of  an  amphitheatre. 

The  charm  of  the  situation  and  the  rich  simplicity  of  the 
architecture  of  the  palace  mark  it  out  among  the  other  build- 
ings of  a  town  not  conspicuously  happy  in  the  choice  or 
employment  of  its   bnildif  g   materials.      The  view  from  the 


76  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

gardens,  which  attracts  travelers  in  search  of  the  picturesque, 
had  long  been  familiar  to  the  Abbe  Dutheil.  He  had  brought 
M.  de  Grancour  with  him  this  evening,  and  went  down  from 
terrace  to  terrace,  taking  no  heed  of  the  sunset  shedding  its 
crimson  and  orange  and  purple  over  the  balustrades  along  the 
steps,  the  houses  on  the  suburb,  and  the  waters  of  the  river. 
He  was  looking  for  the  bishop,  who  at  that  moment  sat  under 
the  vines  in  a  corner  of  the  furthest  terrace,  taking  his  dessert, 
and  enjoying  the  charms  of  the  evening  at  his  ease. 

The  long  shadows  cast  by  the  poplars  on  the  island  fell  like 
a  bar  across  the  river  j  the  sunlight  lit  up  their  topmost  crests, 
yellowed  somewhat  already,  and  turned  the  leaves  to  gold. 
The  glow  of  the  sunset,  differently  reflected  from  the  difi'erent 
masses  of  green,  composed  a  glorious  harmony  of  subdued 
and  softened  color.  A  faint  evening  breeze  stirring  in  the 
depths  of  the  valley  ruffled  the  surface  of  the  Vienne  into  a 
broad  sheet  of  golden  ripples  that  brought  out  in  contrast  all 
the  sober  hues  of  the  roofs  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Etienne. 
The  church  towers  and  housetops  of  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Martial  were  blended  in  the  sunlight  with  the  vine-stems  of 
the  trellis.  The  faint  hum  of  the  country  town,  half-hidden 
in  the  re-entering  curve  of  the  river,  the  softness  of  the  air — 
all  sights  and  sounds  combined  to  steep  the  prelate  in  the 
calm  recommended  for  the  digestion  by  the  authors  of  every 
treatise  on  that  topic.  Unconsciously  the  bishop  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river,  on  a  spot  where  the  length- 
ening shadows  of  the  poplars  in  the  island  had  reached  the 
bank  by  the  Faubourg  Saint-Etienne,  and  darkened  the  walls 
of  the  garden  close  to  the  scene  of  the  double  murder  of  old 
Pingret  and  the  servant ;  and  just  as  his  snug  felicity  of  the 
moment  was  troubled  by  the  difficulties  which  his  vicars-general 
recalled  to  his  recollection,  the  bishop's  expression  grew 
inscrutable  by  reason  of  many  thoughts.  The  two  subordinates 
attributed  his  absence  of  mind  to  ennui ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
the  bishop  had  just  discovered  in  the  sands  of  the  Vienne  the 


TASCHERON.  77 

key  to  the  puzzle,  the  clue  which  the  des  Vanneaulx  and  the 
police  were  seeking  in  vain. 

"  My  lord,"  began  the  Abbe  de  Grancour,  as  he  came  up 
to  the  bishop,  "  everything  has  failed;  we  shall  have  the  sor- 
row of  seeing  that  unhappy  Tascheron  die  in  mortal  sin.  He 
will  bellow  the  most  awful  blasphemies ;  he  will  heap  insults 
on  poor  Abbe  Pascal ;  he  will  spit  on  the  crucifix,  and  deny 
everything,  even  hell-fire." 

"He  will  frighten  the  people,"  said  the  Abbe  Dutheil. 
"  The  very  scandal  and  horror  of  it  will  cover  our  defeat  and 
our  inability  to  prevent  it.  So,  as  I  was  saying  to  M.  de 
Grancour  as  we  came,  may  this  scene  drive  more  than  one 
sinner  back  to  the  bosom  of  the  Church." 

His  words  seemed  to  trouble  the  bishop,  who  laid  down  the 
bunch  of  grapes  which  he  was  stripping  on  the  table,  wiped 
his  fingers,  and  signed  to  his  two  vicars-general  to  be  seated. 

"The  Abbe  Pascal  has  managed  badly,"  said  he  at  last. 

"  He  is  quite  ill  after  the  last  scene  with  the  prisoner,"  said 
the  Abbe  de  Grancour.  "If  he  had  been  well  enough  to 
come,  we  should  have  brought  him  with  us  to  explain  the 
difficulties  which  put  all  the  efforts  which  your  lordship  might 
command  out  of  our  power." 

"  The  condemned  man  begins  to  sing  obscene  songs  at  the 
top  of  his  voice  when  he  sees  one  of  us ;  the  noise  drowns 
every  word  as  soon  as  you  try  to  make  yourself  heard,"  said 
a  young  priest  who  was  sitting  beside  the  bishop. 

The  young  speaker  leaned  his  right  elbow  on  the  table,  his 
white  hand  drooped  carelessly  over  the  bunches  of  grapes  as 
he  selected  the  reddest  berries,  with  the  air  of  being  perfectly 
at  home.  He  had  a  charming  face,  and  seemed  to  be  either 
a  table  companion  or  a. favorite  with  the  bishop,  and  was,  in 
fact,  a  favorite  and  the  prelate's  table-companion.  As  the 
younger  brother  of  the  Baron  de  Rastignac  he  was  connected 
with  the  bishop  of  Limoges  by  the  ties  of  family  relationship 
and  affection.     Considerations  of  fortune  had  induced  the 


78  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

young  man  to  enter  the  Church  ;  and  the  bishop,  aware  of 
this,  had  taken  his  young  relative  as  his  private  secretary 
until  such  time  as  advancement  might  befall  him ;  for  the 
Abbe  Gabriel  bore  a  name  which  predestined  him  to  the 
highest  dignities  of  the  Church. 

"Then  have  you  been  to  see  him,  my  son?  "  asked  the  bishop. 

"  Yes,  my  lord.  As  soon  as  I  appeared,  the  miserable  man 
poured  out  a  torrent  of  the  most  disgusting  language  against 
you  and  me ;  his  behavior  made  it  impossible  for  a  priest  to 
stay  with  him.  Will  you  permit  me  to  offer  you  a  piece  of 
advice,  my  lord?" 

"Let  us  hear  the  wisdom  which  God  sometimes  puts  into 
the  mouth  of  babes,"  said  the  bishop. 

"Did  he  not  cause  Balaam's  ass  to  speak?"  the  young 
Abb6  de  Rastignac  retorted  quickly. 

"  According  to  some  commentators,  the  ass  was  not  very 
well  aware  of  what  she  was  saying,"  the  bishop  answered, 
laughing. 

Both  the  vicars-general  smiled.  In  the  first  place,  it  was 
the  bishop's  joke;  and,  in  the  second,  it  glanced  lightly  on 
this  young  abbe,  of  whom  all  the  dignitaries  and  ambitious 
churchmen  grouped  about  the  bishop  were  envious. 

"  My  advice  would  be  to  beg  M.  de  Granville  to  put  off 
the  execution  for  a  few  days  yet.  If  the  condemned  man 
knew  that  he  owed  those  days  of  grace  to  our  intercession,  he 
would  perhaps  make  some  show  of  listening  to  us,  and  if  he 
listens " 

"  He  will  persist  in  his  conduct  when  he  sees  what  comes 
of  it,"  said  the  bishop,  interrupting  his  favorite.  "Gentle- 
men," he  resumed  after  a  moment's  pause,  "is  the  town 
acquainted  with  these  details  ? ' ' 

"Where  will  you  find  the  house  where  they  are  not  dis- 
cussed?" answered  the  Abb6  de  Grancour.  "The  condition 
of  our  good  Abb6  Pascal  since  his  last  interview  is  matter  of 
common  talk  at  this  moment." 


TASCHERON.  79 

"When  is  Tascheron  to  be  executed?"  asked  the  bishop. 

"To-morrow.     It  is  market-day,"  replied  M.  de  Grancour. 

"Gentlemen,  religion  must  not  be  vanquished,"  cried  the 
bishop.  "The  more  attention  is  attracted  to  this  affair,  the 
more  determined  am  I  to  secure  a  signal  triumph.  The 
Church  is  passing  through  a  difficult  crisis.  Miracles  are 
called  for  here  among  an  industrial  population,  where  sedition 
has  spread  itself  and  taken  root  far  and  wide ;  where  religious 
and  monarchical  doctrines  are  regarded  with  a  critical  spirit ; 
where  nothing  is  respected  by  a  system  of  analysis  derived 
from  Protestantism  by  the  so-called  Liberalism  of  to-day, 
which  is  free  to  take  another  name  to-morrow.  Go  to  M.  de 
Granville,  gentlemen,  he  is  with  us  heart  and  soul;  tell  him 
that  we  ask  for  a  few  days'  respite.  I  will  go  to  see  the 
unhappy  man." 

"  You,  my  lord  !  "  cried  the  Abbe  de  Rastignac.  "Will 
not  too  much  be  compromised  if  you  fail  ?  You  should  only 
go  when  success  is  assured." 

"  If  my  lord  bishop  will  permit  me  to  give  my  opinion," 
said  the  Abb6  Dutheil,  "I  think  that  I  can  suggest  a  means 
of  securing  the  triumph  of  religion  under  these  melancholy 
circumstances." 

The  bishop's  response  was  a  somewhat  cool  sign  of  assent, 
which  showed  how  low  his  vicar-general's  credit  stood  with 
him. 

"  If  any  one  has  any  ascendency  over  this  rebellious  soul, 
and  may  bring  it  to  God,  it  is  M.  Bonnet,  the  cure  of  the 
village  where  the  man  was  born,"  the  Abbe  Dutheil  went 
on. 

"  One  of  your  proteges,"  remarked  the  bishop. 

"  My  lord,  M.  Bonnet  is  one  of  those  who  recommend 
themselves  by  their  militant  virtues  and  evangelical  labors." 

This  answer,  so  modest  and  simple,  was  received  with  a 
silence  which  would  have  disconcerted  any  one  but  the  Abb6 
Dutlieil.     He  had  alluded  to  merits  which  had  been  over- 


80  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

looked,  and  the  three  who  heard  him  chose  to  regard  the 
words  as  one  of  the  meek  sarcasms,  neatly  put,  impossible  to 
resent,  in  which  churchmen  excel,  accustomed  as  they  are  by 
their  training  to  say  the  thing  they  mean  without  transgressing 
the  severe  rules  laid  down  for  them  in  the  least  particular. 
But  it  was  nothing  of  the  kind ;  the  abbe  never  thought  of 
himself.     Then — 

**  I  have  heard  of  Saint  Aristides  for  too  long,"  the  bishop 
made  answer,  smiling.  "  If  I  were  to  leave  his  light  under  a 
bushel,  it  would  be  injustice  or  prejudice  on  my  part.  Your 
Liberals  cry  up  your  M.  Bonnet  as  if  he  were  one  of  them- 
selves ;  I  mean  to  see  this  rural  apostle  and  judge  for  myself. 
Go  to  the  public  prosecutor,  gentlemen,  and  ask  him  in  my 
name  for  a  respite  ;  I  will  await  his  answer  before  despatching 
our  well-beloved  Abb6  Gabriel  to  Montegnac  to  fetch  the  holy 
man  for  us.  We  will  put  his  beatitude  in  the  way  of  work- 
ing a  miracle " 

The  Abbe  Dutheil  flushed  red  at  these  words  from  the 
prelate-noble,  but  he  chose  to  disregard  any  slight  that  they 
might  contain  for  him.  Both  vicars-general  silently  took 
their  leave,  and  left  the  greatly  perplexed  bishop  alone  with  his 
young  friend. 

"  The  secrets  of  the  confessional  which  we  require  lie  buried 
there,  no  doubt,"  said  the  bishop,  pointing  to  the  shadows  of 
the  poplars  where  they  reached  a  lonely  house  half-way  be- 
tween the  island  and  the  Faubourg  Saint-Etienne. 

"So  I  have  always  thought,"  Gabriel  answered.  "I  am 
not  a  judge,  and  I  do  not  care  to  play  the  spy;  but  if  I  had 
been  the  examining  magistrate,  I  should  know  the  nanie  of 
the  woman  who  is  trembling  now  at  every  sound,  at  every 
word  that  is  uttered,  compelled  all  the  while  to  wear  a  smooth, 
unclouded  brow  under  pain  of  accompanying  the  condemned 
man  to  his  death.  Yet  she  has  nothing  to  fear.  I  have  seen 
the  man — he  will  carry  the  secret  of  his  passionate  love  to  his 
grave." 


TASCHERON.  81 

"  Crafty  young  man  !  "  said  the  bishop,  pinching  his  secre- 
tary's ear,  as  he  pointed  out  a  spot  between  the  island  in  the 
river  and  the  Faubourg  Saint-Etienne,  lit  up  by  a  last  red  ray 
from  the  sunset.  The  young  priest's  eyes  had  been  fixed  on 
it  as  he  spoke.  "Justice  ought  to  have  searched  there;  is  it 
not  so?" 

"  I  went  to  see  the  criminal  to  try  the  effect  of  my  guess 
upon  him ;  but  he  is  watched  by  spies,  and,  if  I  had  spoken 
audibly,  I  might  have  compromised  the  woman  for  whom  he 
is  dying." 

"Let  us  keep  silent,"  said  the  bishop.  "We  are  not  con- 
cerned with  man's  justice.  One  head  will  fall,  and  that  is 
enough.  Besides,  sooner  or  later,  the  secret  will  return  to 
the  Church." 

The  perspicacity  of  the  priest,  fostered  by  the  habit  of  medi- 
tation, is  far  keener  than  the  insight  of  the  lawyer  and  the 
detective.  After  all  the  preliminary  investigations,  after  the 
legal  inquiry,  and  the  trial  at  the  assizes,  the  bishop  and  his 
secretary,  looking  down  from  the  height  of  the  terrace,  had 
in  truth,  by  dint  of  contemplation,  succeeded  in  discovering 
details  as  yet  unknown. 

M.  de  Granville  was  playing  his  evening  game  of  whist  in 
Mme.  Graslin's  house,  and  his  visitors  were  obliged  to  wait 
for  his  return.  It  was  near  midnight  before  his  decision  was 
known  at  the  palace,  and  by  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  the 
Abb6  Gabriel  started  out  for  Mont^gnac  in  the  bishop's  own 
traveling  carriage,  loaned  to  him  for  the  occasion.  The  place 
is  about  nine  leagues  distant  from  Limoges ;  it  lies  under  the 
mountains  of  the  Correze,  in  that  part  of  Limousin  which 
borders  on  the  department  of  the  Creuse.  All  Limoges,  when 
the  abb6  left  it,  was  in  a  ferment  of  excitement  over  the  exe- 
cution promised  for  this  day,  an  expectation  destined  to  be 
balked  once  more. 


III. 
THE   CURE  OF  MONTEGNAC. 

In  priests  and  fanatics  there  is  a  certain  tendency  to  insist 
upon  the  very  utmost  to  which  they  are  legally  entitled  where 
their  interests  are  concerned.  Is  this  a  result  of  poverty  ?  Is 
an  egoism  which  favors  the  development  of  greed  one  of  the 
consequences  of  isolation  upon  a  man's  character?  Or  are 
shrewd  business  habits,  as  well  as  parsimony,  acquired  by  a 
course  of  management  of  charitable  funds  ?  Each  tempera- 
ment suggests  a  different  explanation,  but  the  fact  remains  the 
same  whether  it  lurks  (as  not  seldom  happens)  beneath  urbane 
good-humor,  or  (and  equally  often)  is  openly  manifested ;  and 
the  difficulty  of  putting  the  hand  in  the  pocket  is  evidently 
increasingly  felt  on  a  journey. 

Gabriel  de  Rastignac,  the  prettiest  young  gentleman  who 
had  bowed  his  head  before  the  altar  of  the  tabernacle  for  some 
time,  only  gave  thirty  sous  to  the  postillions,  and  traveled 
slowly  accordingly.  The  postillion  tribe  drive  with  all  due 
respect  a  bishop  who  does  but  pay  twice  the  amount  demanded 
of  ordinary  mortals,  but,  at  the  same  time,  they  are  careful 
not  to  damage  the  episcopal  equipage,  for  fear  of  getting  them- 
selves into  trouble.  The  abb6,  traveling  alone  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  spoke  mildly  at  each  relay — 

"  Just  drive  on  a  little  faster,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  You  can't  get  the  whip  to  work  without  a  little  palm 
oil,"  an  old  postillion  replied,  and  the  young  abb6,  much 
mystified,  fell  back  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage.  He  amused 
himself  by  watching  the  landscape  through  which  they  were 
traveling,  and  walked  up  a  hill  now  and  again  on  the  winding 
road  from  Bordeaux  to  Lyons. 

Five  leagues  beyond  Limoges  the  country  changes.  You 
have  left  behind  the  charming  low  hills  about  the  Vienne 
(82) 


THE   CUR&    OF  MONT&GNAC.  83 

and  the  fair  meadow  slopes  of  Limousin,  which  sometimes 
(and  this  particularly  about  Saint-Leonard)  put  you  in  mind 
of  Switzerland.  You  find  yourself  in  a  wilder  and  sterner 
district.  Wide  moors,  vast  steppes  without  grass  or  herds  of 
horses,  stretch  away  to  the  mountains  of  the  Correze  on  the 
horizon.  The  far-off  hills  do  not  tower  above  the  plain,  a 
grandly,  rent  wall  of  rock  like  the  Alps  in  the  south  ;  you  look 
in  vain  for  the  desolate  peaks  and  glowing  gorges  of  the  Apen- 
nine,  or  for  the  majesty  of  the  Pyrenees — the  curving  wave- 
like swell  of  the  hills  of  the  Correze  bears  witness  to  their 
origin,  to  the  peaceful  slow  subsidence  of  the  waters  which 
once  overwhelmed  this  country. 

These  undulations,  characteristic  of  this,  and,  indeed,  of- 
most  of  the  hill  districts  of  France,  have  perhaps,  contributed 
quite  as  much  as  the  climate  to  gain  for  the  land  its  title  of 
"the  kindly,"  which  Europe  has  confirmed.  But  it  is  a 
dreary  transition  country  which  separates  Limousin  from  the 
provinces  of  Marche  and  Auvergne.  In  the  mind  of  the  poet 
and  thinker  who  crosses  it,  it  calls  up  visions  of  the  Infinite 
(a  terrible  thought  for  certain  souls) ;  a  woman  looking  out 
on  its  monotonous  sameness  is  driven  to  muse  ;  and  to  those 
who  must  dwell  with  the  wilderness,  nature  shows  herself  stub- 
born, p>eevish,  and  barren ;  'tis  a  churlish  soil  that  covers 
these  wide  gray  plains. 

Only  the  neighborhood  of  a  great  capital  can  work  such  a 
miracle  as  transformed  Brie  during  the  last  two  centuries. 
Here  there  is  no  large  settlement  which  sometimes  puts  life 
into  the  waste  lands  which  the  agricultural  economist  regards 
as  blanks  in  creation,  spots  where  civilization  groans  aghast, 
and  the  tourist  finds  no  inns  and  a  total  absence  of  that  pic- 
turesqueness  in  which  he  delights. 

But  to  lofty  spirits  the  moors,  the  shadows  needed  in  the 
vast  picture  of  nature,  are  not  repellant.  In  our  own  day, 
Fenimore  Cooper,  owner  of  so  melancholy  a  talent,  has  set 
forth  the  mysterious  charm  of  great  solitudes  magnificently  in 


84  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"The  Prairie."  But  the  wastes  shunned  by  every  form  of 
plant  life,  the  barren  soil  covered  with  loose  stones  and  water- 
borne  pebbles,  the  "bad  lands"  of  the  earth,  are  so  many 
challenges  to  civilization.  France  must  face  her  difficulties 
and  find  a  solution  for  them,  as  the  British  are  doing ;  their 
patient  heroism  is  turning  the  most  barren  heather-land  in 
Scotland  into  productive  farms.  Left  to  their  primitive  deso- 
lation, these  fallows  produce  a  crop  of  discouragement,  of 
idleness,  of  poor  physique  from  insufficient  food,  and  crime, 
whenever  want  grows  too  clamorous.  In  these  few  words,  you 
have  the  past  history  of  Montegnac. 

What  is  there  to  be  done  when  a  waste  on  so  vast  a  scale  is 
neglected  by  the  administration,  deserted  by  the  nobles,  exe- 
crated by  workers?  Its  inhabitants  declare  war  against  a 
social  system  which  refuses  to  do  its  duty,  and  so  it  was  in 
former  times  with  the  folk  of  Montegnac.  They  lived,  like 
Highlanders,  by  murder  and  rapine.  At  sight  of  that  country, 
a  thoughtful  observer  could  readily  imagine  how  that  only 
twenty  years  ago  the  people  of  the  village  were  at  war  with 
society  at  large. 

The  wide  plateau,  cut  away  on  one  side  by  the  Vienne,  on 
another  by  the  lovely  valleys  of  Marche,  bounded  by  the  Au- 
vergne  to  the  east,  and  shut  in  by  the  mountains  of  the  Cor- 
r^ze  on  the  south,  is  very  much  like  (agriculture  apart)  the 
uplands  of  Beauce,  which  separate  the  basin  of  the  Loire 
from  the  basin  of  the  Seine,  or  the  plateaux  of  Touraine  or  of 
Berri,  or  many  others  of  these  facets,  as  it  were,  on  the  sur- 
face of  France,  so  numerous  that  they  demand  the  careful 
attention  of  the  greatest  administrators. 

It  is  an  unheard-of  thing  that  while  people  complain  that 
the  masses  are  discontented  with  their  condition,  and  con- 
stantly aspiring  towards  social  elevation,  a  government  cannot 
find  a  remedy  for  this  in  a  country  like  France,  where  statistics 
show  that  there  are  millions  of  acres  of  land  lying  idle,  and 
in  some  cases  (as  in  Berri)  covered  with  leaf  mold  seven  or 


THE   CUR&   OF  MONT&GNAC.  85 

eight  feet  thick  !  A  good  deal  of  this  land  which  should 
support  whole  villages,  and  yield  a  magnificent  return  to  culti- 
vation, is  the  property  of  pig-headed  communes  which  refuse 
to  sell  to  speculators  because,  forsooth,  they  wish  to  preserve 
the  right  of  grazing  some  hundred  cows  upon  it.  Impotence 
is  writ  large  over  all  these  lands  without  a  purpose.  Yet  every 
bit  of  land  will  grow  some  special  thing,  and  neither  arms 
nor  will  to  work  are  lacking,  but  administrative  ability  and 
conscience. 

Hitherto  the  upland  districts  of  France  have  been  sacrificed 
to  the  valleys.  The  government  has  given  its  fostering  protec- 
tion to  districts  well  able  to  take  care  of  themselves.  But 
most  of  these  unlucky  wastes  have  no  water  supply,  the  first 
requisite  for  cultivation.  The  mists  which  might  fertilize  the 
gray  dead  soil  by  depositing  their  oxides  are  swept  across 
them  by  the  wind.  There  are  no  trees  to  arrest  the  clouds  and 
suck  up  their  nourishing  moisture.  A  few  plantations  here 
and  there  would  be  a  godsend  in  such  places.  The  poor  folk 
who  live  in  these  wilds,  at  a  practically  impossible  distance 
from  the  nearest  large  town,  are  without  a  market  for  their 
produce — if  they  have  any.  Scattered  about  on  the  edges  of 
a  forest  left  to  nature,  they  pick  up  their  firewood  and  eke  out 
a  precarious  existence  by  poaching  ;  in  the  winter  starvation 
stares  them  in  the  face.  They  have  not  capital  enough  to 
grow  wheat,  for  so  poor  are  they  that  ploughs  and  cattle  are 
beyond  their  means ;  and  they  live  on  chestnuts.  If  you  have 
wandered  through  some  Natural  History  Museum  and  felt  the 
indescribable  depression  which  comes  on  after  a  prolonged 
study  of  the  unvarying  brown  hues  of  the  European  specimens, 
you  will  perhaps  understand  how  the  perpetual  contemplation 
of  the  gray  plains  must  affect  the  moral  conditions  of  the 
people  who  live  face  to  face  with  such  disheartening  ster- 
ility. There  is  no  shadow,  nor  contrast,  nor  coolness ;  no 
sight  to  stir  associations  which  gladden  the  mind.  One  could 
hail  a  stunted  crab-tree  there  as  a  friend. 


86  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

The  high-road  forked  at  length,  and  a  cross-road  branched 
off  towards  the  village  a  few  leagues  distant.  Montegnac 
lying  (as  its  name  indicates)  at  the  foot  of  a  ridge  of  hill  is 
the  chief  village  of  a  canton  on  the  borders  of  Haute- 
Vienne.  The  hillside  above  belongs  to  the  township  which 
encircles  hill  country  and  plain ;  indeed,  the  commune  is  a 
miniature  Scotland,  and  has  its  highlands  and  its  lowlands. 
Only  a  league  away,  at  the  back  of  the  hill  which  shelters  the 
township,  rises  the  first  peak  of  the  chain  of  the  Correze,  and 
all  the  country  between  is  filled  by  the  great  forest  of  Mon- 
tegnac, crowning  the  slope  above  the  village,  covering  the  little 
valleys  and  bleak  undulating  land  (left  bare  in  patches  here 
and  there),  climbing  the  peak  itself,  stretching  away  to  the 
north  in  a  long  narrow  strip  which  ends  abruptly  in  a  point 
on  a  steep  bank  above  the  Aubusson  road.  That  bit  of  steep 
bank  rises  above  a  deep  hollow  through  which  the  high-road 
runs  from  Lyons  to  Bordeaux.  Many  a  time  coaches  and 
foot-passengers  have  been  stopped  in  the  darkest  part  of  the 
dangerous  ravine  ;  and  the  robberies  nearly  always  went  with- 
out punishment.  The  situation  favored  the  highwaymen,  who 
escaped  by  paths  well  known  to  them  into  their  forest  fast- 
nesses. In  such  a  country  the  investigations  of  justice  find 
little  trace.     People  accordingly  shunned  that  route. 

Without  traffic  neither  commerce  nor  industry  can  exist ; 
the  exchange  of  intellectual  and  material  wealth  becomes 
impossible.  The  visible  wonders  of  civilization  are  in  all  cases 
the  result  of  the  application  of  ideas  as  old  as  man.  A  thought 
in  the  mind  of  man — that  is  from  age  to  age  the  starting-point 
and  the  goal  of  all  our  civilization.  The  history  of  Montegnac 
is  a  proof  of  this  axiom  of  social  science.  When  the  administra- 
tion found  itself  in  a  position  to  consider  the  pressing  prac- 
tical needs  of  the  country,  the  strip  of  forest  was  felled, 
gendarmes  were  posted  to  accompany  the  diligence  through 
the  two  stages  j  but,  to  the  shame  of  the  gendarmerie  be  it 
said,  it  was  not  the  sword  but  a  voice,  not  Corporal  Chervin 


THE    CUR&    OF  MONTEGNAC.  87 

but  Parson  Bonnet,  who  won  the  battle  of  civilization  by 
reforming  the  lives  of  the  people.  The  cure,  seized  with  pity 
and  compassion  for  those  poor  souls,  tried  to  regenerate  them, 
and  persevered  till  he  gained  his  end. 

After  another  hour's  journey  across  the  plains  where  flints 
succeed  to  dust,  and  dust  to  flints,  and  flocks  of  partridges 
abode  in  peace,  rising  at  the  approach  of  the  carriage  with  a 
heavy  whirring  sound  of  their  wings,  the  Abbe  Gabriel,  like  most 
other  travelers  who  pass  that  way,  hailed  the  sight  of  the  roofs 
of  the  township  with  a  certain  pleasure.  As  you  enter  Monteg- 
nac  you  are  confronted  by  one  of  the  queer  posthouses,  not 
to  be  found  out  of  France.  The  signboard,  nailed  up  with 
four  nails  above  a  sorry  empty  stable,  is  a  rough  oaken  plank 
on  which  a  pretentious  postillion  has  carved  an  inscription, 
darkening  the  letters  with  ink  :  Pauste  o  chevos,  it  runs.  The 
door  is  nearly  always  wide  open.  The  threshold  is  a  plank  set  up 
edgewise  in  the  earth  to  keep  the  rain-water  out  of  the  stable, 
the  floor  being  below  the  level  of  the  road  outside.  Within, 
the  traveler  sees,  to  his  sorrow,  the  harness,  worn,  mildewed, 
mended  with  string,  ready  to  give  way  at  the  first  tug.  The 
horses  are  probably  not  to  be  seen ;  they  are  at  work  on  the 
land,  or  out  at  grass,  anywhere  and  everywhere  but  in  the 
stable.  If  by  any  chance  they  are  within  they  are  feeding. 
If  the  horses  are  ready,  the  postillion  has  gone  to  see  his  aunt 
or  his  cousin,  or  gone  to  sleep,  or  he  is  getting  in  his  hay. 
Nobody  knows  where  he  is ;  you  must  wait  while  somebody  goes 
to  find  him.  He  does  not  stir  until  he  has  a  mind ;  and  when 
he  comes,  it  takes  him  an  eternity  to  find  his  waistcoat  or  his 
whip,  or  to  rub  down  his  cattle.  The  buxom  dame  in  the  door- 
way fidgets  about  even  more  restlessly  than  the  traveler,  and 
forestalls  any  outburst  on  his  part  by  bestirring  herself  a  good 
deal  more  quickly  than  the  horses.  She  personates  the  post- 
mistress whose  husband  is  out  in  the  fields. 

It  was  in  such  a  stable  as  this  that  the  bishop's  favorite  left 
his  traveling  carriage.      The  walls   looked   like   maps;    the 


88  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

thatched  roof,  as  gay  with  flowers  as  a  garden  bed,  bent  under 
the  weight  of  its  growing  house-leeks.  He  asked  the  woman 
of  the  place  to  have  everything  in  readiness  for  his  departure 
in  an  hour's  time,  and  inquired  of  her  his  way  to  the  parson- 
age. The  good  woman  pointed  out  a  narrow  alley  between 
two  houses.  That  was  the  way  to  the  church,  she  said,  and 
he  would  find  the  parsonage  hard  by. 

While  the  abbe  climbed  the  steep  path  paved  with  cobble- 
stones between  the  hedgerows  on  either  side,  the  postmistress 
fell  to  questioning  the  postboy.  Every  postboy  along  the 
road  from  Limoges  had  passed  on  to  his  brother  whip  the 
surmises  of  the  first  postillion  concerning  the  bishop's  inten- 
tions. So  while  Limoges  was  turning  out  of  bed  and  talking 
of  the  execution  of  old  Pingret's  murderer,  the  country-folk 
all  along  the  road  were  spreading  the  news  of  the  pardon 
procured  by  the  bishop  for  the  innocent  prisoner,  and  prattling 
of  supposed  miscarriages  of  justice,  insomuch  that  when  Jean- 
Fran  gois  came  to  the  scaff'old  at  a  later  day,  he  was  likely  to  be 
regarded  as  a  martyr. 

The  Abbe  Gabriel  went  some  few  paces  along  the  footpath, 
red  with  autumn  leaves,  dark  with  blackberries  and  sloes ; 
then  he  turned  and  stood,  acting  on  the  instinct  which 
prompts  us  to  make  a  survey  of  any  strange  place,  an  instinct 
which  we  share  with  the  horse  and  dog.  The  reason  of  the 
choice  of  the  site  of  Montdgnac  was  apparent ;  several  streams 
broke  out  of  the  hillside,  and  a  small  river  flowed  along  by 
the  departmental  road  which  leads  from  the  township  to  the 
prefecture.  Like  the  rest  of  the  villages  in  this  plateau, 
Montegnac  is  built  of  blocks  of  clay,  dried  in  the  sun  ;  if  a 
fire  broke  out  in  a  cottage,  it  is  possible  that  it  might  find  it 
earth  and  leave  it  brick.  The  roofs  are  of  thatch  ;  altogether, 
it  was  a  poor-looking  place  that  the  bishop's  messenger  saw. 
Below  Montegnac  lay  fields  of  rye,  potatoes,  and  turnips, 
land  won  from  the  plain.  In  the  meadows  on  the  lowest 
slope  of  the   hillside,  watered  by  artificial   channels,  were 


THE   CURE    OF  MONT&GNAC.  89 

some  of  the  celebrated  breed  of  Limousin  horses  j  a  legacy 
(so  it  is  said)  of  the  Arab  invaders  of  France,  who  crossed 
the  Pyrenees  to  meet  death  from  the  battle-axes  of  Charles 
Martel's  Franks,  between  Poitiers  and  Tours.  Up  above  on 
the  heights  the  soil  looked  parched.  Now  and  again  the 
reddish  scorched  surface,  burnt  bare  by  the  sun,  indicated  the 
arid  soil  which  the  chestnuts  love.  The  water,  thriftily  dis- 
tributed along  the  irrigation  channels,  was  only  sufficient  to 
keep  the  meadows  fresh  and  green ;  on  these  hillsides  grows 
the  fine  short  grass,  the  delicate  sweet  pasture  that  builds  you 
up  a  breed  of  horses  delicate  and  impatient  of  control,  fiery, 
but  not  possessed  of  much  staying-power  ;  unexcelled  in  their 
native  district,  but  apt  to  change  their  character  when  they 
change  their  country. 

Some  young  mulberry  trees  indicated  an  intention  of  grow- 
ing silk.  Like  most  villages,  Montegnac  could  only  boast  a 
single  street,  to  wit,  the  road  that  ran  through  it ;  but  there 
was  an  Upper  and  Lower  Montegnac  on  either  side  of  it, 
each  cut  in  two  by  a  little  pathway  running  at  right  angles  to 
the  road.  The  hillside  below  a  row  of  houses  on  the  ridge 
was  gay  with  terraced  gardens  which  rose  from  a  level  of 
several  feet  above  the  road,  necessitating  flights  of  steps, 
sometimes  of  earth,  sometimes  paved  with  cobble-stones.  A 
few  old  women,  here  and  there,  who  sat  spinning  or  looking 
after  the  children,  put  some  human  interest  into  the  picture, 
and  kept  up  a  conversation  between  Upper  and  Lower  Mon- 
tegnac by  talking  to  each  other  across  the  road,  usually  quiet 
enough.  In  this  way  news  traveled  pretty  quickly  from  one 
end  of  the  township  to  the  other.  The  gardens  were  full  of 
fruit  trees,  cabbages,  onions,  and  potherbs ;  beehives  stood 
in  rows  along  the  terraces. 

A  second  parallel  row  of  cottages  lay  below  the  road,  their 
gardens  sloping  down  towards  the  little  river  which  flowed 
through  fields  of  thick-growing  hemp,  the  fruit  trees  which 
love  damp  places  marking  its  course.     A  few  cottages,  the 


90  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

posthouse  among  them,  nestled  in  a  hollow,  a  situation  well 
adapted  for  the  weavers  who  lived  in  them,  and  almost  every 
house  was  overshadowed  by  the  walnut  trees,  which  flourish 
best  in  heavy  soil.  At  the  further  end  of  Montegnac,  and  on 
the  same  side  of  the  road,  stood  a  house  larger  and  more 
carefully  kept  than  the  rest ;  it  was  the  largest  of  a  group 
equally  neat  in  appearance,  a  little  hamlet,  in  fact,  separated 
from  the  township  by  its  gardens,  and  known  then,  as  to-day, 
by  the  name  of  "  Tascherons.'  "  The  commune  was  not  much 
in  itself,  but  some  thirty  outlying  farms  belonged  to  it.  In 
the  valley  several  "water-lanes"  like  those  in  Berri  and 
Marche  marked  out  the  course  of  the  little  streams  with  green 
fringes.  The  whole  commune  looked  like  a  green  ship  in  the 
midst  of  a  wide  sea. 

Whenever  a  house,  a  farm,  a  village,  or  a  district  passes 
from  a  deplorable  state  to  a  more  satisfactory  condition  of 
things,  though  as  yet  scarcely  to  be  called  strikingly  pros- 
perous, the  life  there  seems  so  much  a  matter  of  course,  so 
natural,  that  at  first  sight  a  spectator  can  never  guess  how  much 
toil  went  to  the  founding  of  that  not  extraordinary  prosperity ; 
what  an  amount  of  effort,  vast  in  proportion  to  the  strength 
that  undertook  it ;  what  heroic  persistence  lies  there  buried 
and  out  of  sight,  effort  and  persistence  without  which  the 
visible  changes  could  not  have  taken  place.  So  the  young 
abb6  saw  nothing  unusual  in  the  pleasant  view  before  his  eyes ; 
he  little  knew  what  that  country  had  been  before  M.  Bonnet 
came  to  it. 

He  turned  and  went  a  few  paces  further  up  the  path,  and 
soon  came  in  sight  of  the  church  and  parsonage,  about  six 
hundred  feet  above  the  gardens  of  Upper  Montegnac,  Both 
buildings,  when  first  seen  in  the  distance,  -were  hard  to  dis- 
tinguish among  the  ivy-covered  stately  ruins  of  the  old  Castle 
of  Montegnac,  a  stronghold  of  the  Navarreins  in  the  twelfth 
century.  The  parsonage  house  had  every  appearance  of  being 
built  in  the  first  instance  for  a  steward  or  a  head  gamekeeper. 


THE    CURE    OF  MONT&GNAC.  91 

It  stood  at  the  end  of  a  broad  terrace  planted  with  lime  trees, 
and  overlooked  the  whole  countryside.  The  ravages  of  time 
bore  witness  to  the  antiquity  of  the  flight  of  steps  and  the 
walls  which  supported  the  terrace,  the  stones  had  been  forced 
out  of  place  by  the  constant  imperceptible  thrusting  of  plant 
life  in  the  crevices,  until  tall  grasses  and  wild  flowers  had 
taken  root  among  them.  Every  step  was  covered  with  a 
dark-green  carpet  of  fine  close  moss.  The  masonry,  solid 
though  it  was,  was  full  of  rifts  and  cracks,  where  wild  plants 
of  the  pellitory  and  camomile  tribe  were  growing ;  the  maiden- 
hair fern  sprang  from  the  loopholes  in  thick  masses  of  shaded 
green.  The  whole  face  of  the  wall,  in  fact,  was  hung  with 
the  finest  and  fairest  tapestry,  damasked  with  bracken  fronds, 
purple  snap-dragons  with  their  golden  stamens,  blue  borage, 
and  brown  fern  and  moss,  till  the  stone  itself  was  only  seen 
by  glimpses  here  and  there  through  its  moist,  cool  covering. 

Up  above,  upon  the  terrace,  the  clipped  box  borders  formed 
geometrical  patterns  in  a  pleasure  garden  framed  by  the  par- 
sonage house,  and  behind  the  parsonage  rose  the  crags,  a  pale 
background  of  rock,  on  which  a  few  drooping,  feathery  trees 
struggled  to  live.  The  ruins  of  the  castle  towered  above  the 
house  and  the  church. 

The  parsonage  itself,  built  of  flints  and  mortar,  boasted  a 
single  story  and  garrets  above,  apparently  empty,  to  judge  by 
the  dilapidated  windows  on  either  gable  under  the  high-pitched 
roof.  A  couple  of  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  separated  by  a 
passage  with  a  wooden  staircase  at  the  farther  end  of  it,  two 
more  rooms  on  the  second  floor,  and  a  little  lean-to  kitchen 
built  against  the  side  of  the  house  in  the  yard,  where  a  stable 
and  coach-house  stood  perfectly  empty,  useless,  abandoned — 
this  was  all.  The  kitchen  garden  lay  between  the  house  and 
the  church ;  a  ruinous  covered  passage  led  from  the  parsonage 
to  the  sacristy. 

The  young  abbe's  eyes  wandered  over  the  place.  He 
noted  the  four  windows  with  their  leaded  panes,  the  brown 


92  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

moss-grown  walls,  the  rough  wooden  door,  so  full  of  splits 
and  cracks  that  it  looked  like  a  bundle  of  matches,  and  the 
adorable  quaintness  of  it  all  by  no  means  took  his  fancy.  The 
grace  of  the  plant  life  which  covered  the  roofs,  the  wild 
climbing  flowers  that  sprang  from  the  rotting  wooden  sills 
and  cracks  in  the  wall,  the  trails  and  tendrils  of  the  vines, 
covered  with  tiny  clusters  of  grapes,  which  found  their  way 
in  through  the  windows,  as  if  they  were  fain  to  carry  merri- 
ment and  laughter  into  the  house — all  this  he  beheld,  and 
thanked  his  stars  that  his  way  led  to  a  bishopric,  and  not  to  a 
country  parsonage. 

The  house,  open  all  day  long,  seemed  to  belong  to  every 
one.  The  Abbe  Gabriel  walked  into  the  dining-room,  which 
opened  into  the  kitchen.  The  furniture  which  met  his  eyes 
was  poor — an  old  oak  table  with  four  twisted  legs,  an  easy- 
chair  covered  with  tapestry,  a  few  wooden  chairs,  and  an  old 
chest,  which  did  duty  as  a  sideboard.  There  was  no  one  in 
the  kitchen  except  the  cat,  the  sign  of  a  woman  in  the  house. 
The  other  room  was  the  parlor  ;  glancing  round  it,  the  young 
priest  noticed  that  the  easy-chairs  were  made  of  unpolished 
wood,  and  covered  with  tapestry.  The  paneling  of  the  walls, 
like  the  rafters,  was  of  chestnut-wood,  and  black  as  ebony. 
There  was  a  timepiece  in  a  green  case  painted  with  flowers,  a 
table  covered  with  a  worn  green  cloth,  one  or  two  chairs,  and 
on  the  mantle-shelf  an  Infant  Jesus  in  wax  under  a  glass  shade 
set  between  two  candlesticks.  The  hearth,  surrounded  by  a 
rough  wooden  moulding,  was  hidden  by  a  paper  screen  repre- 
senting the  Good  Shepherd  with  a  sheep  on  his  shoulder.  In 
this  way,  doubtless,  one  of  the  family  of  the  mayor,  or  of  the 
justice  of  the  peace,  endeavored  to  express  his  acknowledg- 
ments of  the  care  bestowed  on  his  training. 

The  state  of  the  house  was  something  piteous.  The  walls, 
which  had  once  been  lime-washed,  were  discolored  here  and 
there,  and  rubbed  and  darkened  up  to  the  height  of  a  man's 
head.     The   wooden   staircase,   with   its   heavy   balustrades. 


THE   CUR&    OF  MONTEGNAC.  93 

neatly  kept  though  it  was,  looked  as  though  it  must  totter  if 
any  one  set  foot  on  it.  At  the  end  of  the  passage,  just  oppo- 
site the  front  door,  another  door  stood  open,  giving  the  Abbe 
Gabriel  an  opportunity  of  surveying  the  kitchen  garden,  shut 
in  by  the  wall  of  the  old  rampart,  built  of  the  white  crumb- 
ling stone  of  the  district.  Fruit  trees  in  full  bearing  had  been 
trained  espalier-fashion  along  this  side  of  the  garden,  but  the 
long  trellises  were  falling  to  pieces,  and  the  vine-leaves  were 
covered  with  blight. 

The  abbe  went  back  through  the  house,  and  walked  along 
the  paths  in  the  front  garden,  Down  below  the  magnificent 
wide  view  of  the  valley  was  spread  out  before  his  eyes,  a  sort 
of  oasis  on  the  edge  of  the  great  plain,  which,  in  the  light 
morning  mists,  looked  something  like  a  waveless  sea.  Behind, 
and  rather  to  one  side,  the  great  forest  stretched  away  to  the 
horizon,  the  bronzed  mass  making  a  contrast  with  the  plains, 
and  on  the  other  hand  the  church  and  the  castle  perched  on 
the  crag  stood  sharply  out  against  the  blue  sky.  As  the 
Abbe  Gabriel  paced  the  tiny  paths  among  the  box-edged 
diamonds,  circles,  and  stairs,  crunching  the  gravel  beneath  his 
boots,  he  looked  from  point  to  point  at  the  scene ;  over  the 
village,  where  already  a  few  groups  of  gazers  had  formed  to 
stare  at  him,  at  the  valley  in  the  morning  light,  the  quick-set 
hedges  that  marked  the  ways,  the  little  river  flowing  under  its 
willows,  in  such  contrast  with  the  infinite  of  the  plains. 
Gradually  his  impressions  changed  the  current  of  his  thoughts. 
He  admired  the  quietness,  he  felt  the  influences  of  the  pure 
air,  of  the  peace  inspired  by  a  glimpse  of  a  life  of  biblical 
simplicity ;  and  with  these  came  a  dim  sense  of  the  beauty  of 
that  life.  He  went  back  again  to  look  at  its  details  with  a 
more  serious  curiosity. 

A  little  girl,  left  in  charge  of  the  house  no  doubt,  but  busy 
pilfering  in  the  garden,  came  back  at  the  sound  of  a  man's 
shoes  creaking  on  the  flagged  pavement  of  the  ground-floor 
rooms.     In  her  confusion  at  being  caught  with  fruit  in  her 


94  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

hand  and  between  her  teeth,  she  made  no  answer  whatever  to 
the  questions  put  to  her  by  this  abbe — young,  handsome, 
daintily  arrayed.  The  child  had  never  believed  it  possible 
that  such  an  abbe  could  exist — radiant  in  fine  lawn,  neat  as  a 
new  pin,  and  dressed  in  fine  black  cloth  without  a  speck  or  a 
crease. 

**  M.  Bonnet  ?  "  she  echoed  at  last.  "  M.  Bonnet  is  saying 
mass,  and  Mile.  Ursule  is  gone  to  the  church." 

The  covered  passage  from  the  house  to  the  sacristy  had 
escaped  the  Abbe  Gabriel's  notice ;  so  he  went  down  the  path 
again  to  enter  the  church  by  the  principal  door.  The  church 
porch  was  a  sort  of  pent-house  facing  the  village,  set  at  the 
top  of  a  flight  of  worn  and  disjointed  steps,  overlooking  a 
square  below ;  planted  with  the  great  elm  trees  which  date 
from  the  time  of  the  Protestant  Sully,  and  full  of  channels 
washed  by  the  rains. 

The  church  itself,  one  of  the  poorest  in  France,  where 
churches  are  sometimes  very  poor,  was  not  unlike  those  huge 
barns  which  boast  a  roof  above  the  door,  supported  by  brick 
pillars  or  tree-trunks.  Like  the  parsonage  house,  it  was  built 
of  rubble,  the  square  tower  being  roofed  with  round  tiles ;  but 
nature  had  covered  the  bare  walls  with  the  richest  tracery 
mouldings,  and  made  them  fairer  still  with  color  and  light  and 
shade,  carving  her  lines  and  disposing  her  masses,  showing 
all  the  craftsman's  cunning  of  a  Michel  Angelo  in  her  work. 
The  ivy  clambered  over  both  sides,  its  sinewy  stems  clung  to 
the  walls  till  they  were  covered,  beneath  the  green  leaves,  with 
as  many  veins  as  any  anatomical  diagram.  Under  this  mantle, 
wrought  by  time  to  hide  the  wounds  which  time  had  made, 
damasked  by  autumn  flowers  that  grew  in  the  crevices,  nestled 
the  singing  birds.  The  rose  window  in  the  west  front  was 
bordered  with  blue  harebells,  like  the  first  page  of  some  richly- 
painted  missal.  There  were  fewer  flowers  on  the  north  side, 
which  communicated  with  the  parsonage,  though  even  there 
there  were  patches  of  crimson  moss  on  the  gray  stone,  but 


THE   CURE    OF  MOiYTAGNAC.  95 

the  south  wall  and  the  apse  were  covered  with  many-colored 
blossoms;  there  were  a  few  saplings  rooted  in  the  cracks, 
notably  an  almond-tree,  the  symbol  of  hope.  Two  giant  firs 
grew  up  close  to  the  wall  of  the  apse,  and  served  as  lightning- 
conductors.  A  low  ruinous  wall  repaired  and  maintained  at 
elbow  height  with  fallen  fragments  of  its  own  masonry  ran 
round  the  churchyard.  In  the  midst  of  the  space  stood  an  iron 
cross  mounted  on  a  stone  pedestal,  strewn  with  sprigs  of  box 
blessed  at  Easter,  a  reminder  of  a  touching  Christian  rite,  now 
fallen  into  disuse  except  in  country  places.  Only  in  little 
villages  and  hamlets  does  the  priest  go  at  Eastertide  to  bear  to 
his  dead  the  tidings  of  the  Resurrection — "  You  will  live  again 
in  happiness."  Here  and  there  above  the  grass-covered 
graves  rose  a  rotten  wooden  cross. 

The  inside  was  in  every  way  in  keeping  with  the  pictur- 
esque neglect  outside  of  the  poor  church,  where  all  the  orna- 
ment had  been  given  by  time,  grown  charitable  for  once. 
Within,  your  eyes  turned  at  once  to  the  roof.  It  was  lined 
with  chestnut-wood  and  sustained  at  equal  distances  by  strong 
king-posts  set  on  cross-beams ;  age  had  imparted  to  it  the 
richest  tones  which  old  woods  can  take  in  Europe.  The  four 
walls  were  lime-washed  and  bare  of  ornament.  Poverty  had 
made  unconscious  iconoclasts  of  these  worshipers. 

Four  pointed  windows  in  the  side  walls  let  in  the  light 
through  their  leaded  panes  ;  the  floor  was  of  brick ;  the  seats, 
wooden  benches.  The  tomb-shaped  altar  bore  for  ornament  a 
great  crucifix,  beneath  which  stood  a  tabernacle  in  walnut- 
wood  (its  mouldings  brightly  polished  and  clean),  eight 
candlesticks  (the  candles  thriftily  made  of  painted  wood),  and 
a  couple  of  china  vases  full  of  artificial  flowers,  things  that  a 
broker's  man  would  have  declined  to  look  at,  but  which  must 
serve  for  God.  The  lamp  in  the  shrine  was  simply  a  floating- 
light,  like  a  night-light,  set  in  an  old  silver-plated  holy  water 
stoup,  hung  from  the  ceiling  by  silken  cords  brought  from  the 
wreck  of  some  chateau.     The  baptismal  fonts  were  of  wood 


96  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON, 

like  the  pulpit,  and  a  sort  of  cage  where  the  church-wardens 
sat — the  patricians  of  the  place.  The  shrine  in  the  Lady 
Chapel  offered  to  the  admiration  of  the  public  two  colored 
lithographs  framed  in  a  narrow  gilded  frame.  The  altar  had 
been  painted  white,  and  adorned  with  artificial  flowers 
planted  in  gilded  wooden  flower-pots  set  out  on  a  white 
altar-cloth  edged  with  shabby  yellowish  lace. 

But  at  the  end  of  the  church  a  long  window  covered  with 
a  red  cotton  curtain  produced  a  magical  effect.  The  lime- 
washed  walls  caught  a  faint  rose-tint  from  that  glowing  crim- 
son ;  it  was  as  if  some  thought  divine  shone  from  the  altar  to 
fill  the  poor  place  with  warmth  and  light.  On  one  wall  of 
the  passage  which  led  into  the  sacristy  the  patron  saint  of  the 
village  had  been  carved  in  wood  and  painted — a  St.  John  the 
Baptist  and  his  sheep,  an  execrable  daub.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the 
bareness  and  poverty  of  the  church,  there  was  about  the  whole 
a  subdued  harmony  which  appeals  to  those  whose  spirits  have 
been  finely  touched,  a  harmony  of  the  visible  and  invisible  em- 
phasized by  the  coloring.  The  rich  dark-brown  tints  of  the 
wood  made  an  admirable  relief  to  the  pure  white  of  the  walls, 
and  both  blended  with  the  triumphant  crimson  of  the  chancel 
window,  an  austere  trinity  of  color  which  recalled  the  great 
doctrine  of  the  Catholic  Church. 

If  surprise  was  the  first  feeling  called  forth  by  the  sight  of 
this  miserable  house  of  God,  pity  and  admiration  followed 
quickly  upon  it.  Did  it  not  express  the  poverty  of  those  who 
worshiped  there?  Was  it  not  in  keeping  with  the  quaint 
simplicity  of  the  parsonage?  And  it  was  clean  and  carefully 
kept.  You  breathed,  as  it  were,  an  atmosphere  of  the  simple 
virtues  of  the  fields;  nothing  within  spoke  of  neglect. 
Primitive  and  homely  though  it  was,  it  was  clothed  in  prayer; 
a  soul  pervaded  it  which  you  felt,  though  you  could  not 
explain  how. 

The  Abb6  Gabriel  slipped  in  softly,  so  as  not  to  interrupt 
the  meditations  of  two  groups  on  the  front  benches  before  the 


THE   CUR&    OF  MONT&GNAC.  97 

high-altar,  which  was  railed  off  from  the  nave  by  a  balustrade 
of  the  inevitable  chestnut-wood,  roughly  made  enough,  and 
covered  with  a  white  cloth  for  the  communion.  Just  above 
the  space  hung  the  lamp.  Some  score  of  peasant-folk  on 
either  side  were  so  deeply  absorbed  in  passionate  prayer,  that 
they  paid  no  heed  to  the  stranger  as  he  walked  up  the  church 
in  the  narrow  gangway  between  the  rows  of  benches.  As  the 
Abbe  Gabriel  stood  beneath  the  lamp,  he  could  see  into  the 
two  chancels  which  completed  the  cross  of  the  ground-plan  ; 
one  of  them  led  to  the  sacristy,  the  other  to  the  churchyard. 
It  was  in  this  latter,  near  the  graves,  that  a  whole  family  clad 
in  black  were  kneeling  on  the  brick  floor,  for  there  were  no 
benches  in  this  part  of  the  church.  The  abbe  bent  before 
the  altar  on  the  step  of  the  balustrade  and  knelt  to  pray, 
giving  a  side  glance  at  this  sight,  which  was  soon  explained. 
The  Gospel  was  read  ;  the  cure  took  off  his  chasuble  and 
came  down  from  the  altar  towards  the  railing ;  and  the  abbe, 
who  had  foreseen  this,  slipped  away  and  stood  close  to  the 
wall  before  M.  Bonnet  could  see  him.     The  clock  struck  ten. 

"  My  brethren,"  said  the  cure  in  a  faltering  voice,  "  even 
at  this  moment,  a  child  of  this  parish  is  paying  his  forfeit  to 
man's  justice  by  submitting  to  its  extreme  penalty.  We  offer 
the  holy  sacrifice  of  the  mass  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  Let 
us  all  pray  together  to  God  to  beseech  Him  not  to  forsake 
that  child  in  his  last  moments,  to  entreat  that  repentance  here 
on  earth  may  find  in  heaven  the  mercy  which  has  been  refused 
to  it  here  below.  The  ruin  of  this  unhappy  child,  on  whom 
we  had  counted  most  surely  to  set  a  good  example,  can  only 
be  attributed  to  a  lapse  from  religious  principles " 

The  cure  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  sobbing  from  the 
group  of  mourners  in  the  transept ;  and  by  the  paroxysm  of 
grief  the  young  priest  knew  that  this  was  the  Tascheron  family, 
though  he  had  never  seen  them  before.  The  two  foremost 
among  them  were  old  people  of  seventy  years  at  least.  Their 
faces,  swarthy  as  a  Florentine  bronze,  were  covered  with  deep 
7 


98  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

impassive  lines.  Both  of  them,  in  their  old  patched  garments, 
stood  like  statues  close  against  the  wall ;  evidently  this  was 
the  condemned  man's  grandfather  and  grandmother.  Their 
red  glassy  eyes  seemed  to  shed  tears  of  blood  ;  the  old  arms 
trembled  so  violently  that  the  sticks  on  which  they  leaned 
made  a  faint  sound  of  scratching  on  the  bricks.  Behind  them 
the  father  and  mother,  their  faces  hidden  in  their  handker- 
chiefs, burst  into  tears.  About  the  four  heads  of  the  family 
knelt  two  married  daughters  with  their  husbands,  then  three 
sons,  stupefied  with  grief.  Five  kneeling  little  ones,  the  oldest 
not  more  than  seven  years  of  age,  understood  nothing  prob- 
ably of  all  that  went  on,  but  looked  and  listened  with  the 
apparently  torpid  curiosity,  which  in  the  peasant  is  often  a 
process  of  observation  carried  (so  far  as  the  outward  and  visi- 
ble is  concerned)  to  the  highest  possible  pitch.  Last  of  all 
came  the  poor  girl  Denise,  who  had  been  imprisoned  by  jus- 
tice, the  martyr  to  sisterly  love ;  she  was  listening  with  an 
expression  which  seemed  to  betoken  incredulity  and  straying 
thoughts.  To  her  it  seemed  impossible  that  her  brother  should 
die.  Her  face  was  a  wonderful  picture  of  another  face,  that  of 
one  among  the  three  Marys  who  could  not  believe  that  Christ 
was  dead,  though  she  had  shared  the  agony  of  His  passion. 
Pale  and  dry-eyed,  as  is  the  wont  of  those  who  have  watched 
for  many  nights,  her  freshness  had  been  withered  more  by 
sorrow  than  by  work  in  the  fields  ;  but  she  still  kept  the 
beauty  of  a  country-girl,  the  full  plump  figure,  the  shapely 
red  arms,  a  perfectly  round  face,  and  clear  eyes,  glittering  at 
that  moment  with  the  light  of  despair  in  them.  Her  throat, 
firm-fleshed  and  white  below  the  line  of  sunburned  brow,  in- 
dicated the  rich  tissue  and  fairness  of  the  skin  beneath  the 
stuff.  The  two  married  daughters  were  weeping ;  their  hus- 
bands, patient  tillers  of  the  soil,  were  grave  and  sad.  None 
of  the  three  sons  in  their  sorrow  raised  their  eyes  from  the 
ground. 

Only  Denise  and  her  mother  showed  any  sign  of  rebellion 


THE   CURE    OF  MONT&GNAC.  99 

in  the  harrowing  picture  of  resignation  and  despairing  anguish. 
The  sympathy  and  sincere  and  pious  commiseration  felt  by 
the  rest  of  the  villagers  for  a  family  so  much  respected  had 
lent  the  same  expression  to  all  faces,  an  expression  which  be- 
came a  look  of  positive  horror  when  they  gathered  from  the 
cure's  words  that  even  in  that  moment  the  knife  would  fall. 
All  of  them  had  known  the  young  man  from  the  day  of  his 
birth,  and  doubtless  all  of  them  believed  him  to  be  incapable 
of  committing  the  crime  laid  to  his  charge.  The  sobbing 
which  broke  in  upon  the  simple  and  brief  address  grew  so 
vehement  that  the  cure's  voice  suddenly  ceased,  and  he  in- 
vited those  present  to  fervent  prayer. 

There  was  nothing  in  this  scene  to  surprise  a  priest,  but 
Gabriel  de  Rastignac  was  too  young  not  to  feel  deeply  moved 
by  it.  He  had  not  as  yet  put  priestly  virtues  in  practice ;  he 
knew  that  a  different  destiny  lay  before  him  ;  that  it  would 
never  be  his  duty  to  go  forth  into  the  social  breaches  where 
the  heart  bleeds  at  the  sight  of  suffering  on  every  side ;  his 
lot  would  be  cast  among  the  upper  ranks  of  the  clergy  which 
keep  alive  the  spirit  of  sacrifice,  represent  the  highest  intelli- 
gence of  the  Church,  and,  when  occasion  calls  for  it,  display 
these  same  virtues  of  the  village  cure  on  the  largest  scale,  like 
the  great  bishops  of  Marseilles  and  Meaux,  the  archbishops  of 
Aries  and  Cambrai.  The  poor  peasants  were  praying  and 
weeping  for  one  who  (as  they  believed)  was  even  then  going 
to  his  death  in  a  great  public  square,  before  a  crowd  of  people 
assembled  from  all  parts  to  see  him  die,  the  agony  of  death 
made  intolerable  for  him  by  the  weight  of  shame ;  there  was 
something  very  touching  in  this  feeble  counterpoise  of  sym- 
pathy and  prayer  from  a  few,  opposed  to  the  cruel  curiosity  of 
the  rabble  and  the  curses,  not  undeserved.  The  poor  church 
heightened  the  pathos  of  the  contrast. 

The  Abbe  Gabriel  was  tempted  to  go  over  to  the  Tascher- 
ons  and  cry,  "Your  son,  your  brother  has  been  reprieved  !  " 
but  he  shrank  from  interrupting  the  mass ;  he  knew,  more- 


100  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

o\tx,  that  it  was  only  a  reprieve,  the  execution  was  sure  to 
take  place  sooner  or  later.  But  he  could  not  follow  the  ser- 
vice ;  in  spite  of  himself,  he  began  to  watch  the  pastor  of 
whom  the  miracle  of  conversion  was  expected. 

Out  of  the  indications  in  the  parsonage  house,  Gabriel  de 
Rastignac  had  drawn  a  picture  of  M.  Bonnet  in  his  own 
mind :  He  would  be  short  and  stout,  he  thought,  with  a  red, 
powerful  face,  a  rough  workingman,  almost  like  one  of  the 
peasants  themselves,  and  tanned  by  the  sun.  The  reality  was 
very  far  from  this ;  the  Abbe  Gabriel  found  himself  in  the 
presence  of  an  equal.  M,  Bonnet  was  short,  slender,  and 
weakly-looking ;  yet  it  was  none  of  these  characteristics,  but 
an  impassioned  face,  such  a  face  as  we  imagine  for  an  apostle, 
which  struck  you  at  a  first  glance.  In  shape  it  was  almost 
triangular ;  starting  from  the  temples  on  either  side  of  a  broad 
forehead,  furrowed  with  wrinkles,  the  meagre  outlines  of  the 
hollow  cheeks  met  at  a  point  in  the  chin.  In  that  face,  over- 
cast by  an  ivory  tint  like  the  wax  of  an  altar  candle,  blazed 
two  blue  eyes,  full  of  the  light  of  faith  and  the  fires  of  a  living 
hope.  A  long,  slender,  straight  nose  divided  it  into  two  equal 
parts.  The  wide  mouth  spoke  even  when  the  full,  resolute 
lips  were  closed,  and  the  voice  which  issued  thence  was  one 
of  those  which  go  to  the  heart.  The  chestnut  hair,  thin, 
smooth,  and  fine,  denoted  a  poor  physique,  poorly  nour- 
ished. The  whole  strength  of  the  man  lay  in  his  will.  Such 
were  his  personal  characteristics.  In  any  other  such  short 
hands  might  have  indicated  a  bent  towards  material  pleasures; 
perhaps  he  too,  like  Socrates,  had  found  evil  in  his  nature  to 
subdue.  His  thinness  was  ungainly,  his  shoulders  protruded 
too  much,  and  he  seemed  to  be  knock-kneed  ;  his  bust  was  so 
over-developed  in  comparison  with  his  limbs  that  it  gave  him 
something  of  the  appearance  of  a  hunchback  without  the 
actual  deformity  ;  altogether,  to  an  ordinary  observer,  his  ap- 
pearance was  not  prepossessing.  Only  those  who  know  the 
miracles  of  thought  and  faith  and  art  can  recognize  and  rev- 


THE   CURJ^    OF  MONT&GNAC.  101 

erence  the  light  that  burns  in  a  martyr's  eyes,  the  pallor  of 
steadfastness,  the  voice  of  love — all  traits  of  the  Cure  Bonnet. 
Here  was  a  man  worthy  of  that  early  Church  which  no  longer 
exists  save  in  the  pages  of  the  "  Martyrology  "  and  in  pictures 
of  the  sixteenth  century ;  he  bore  unmistakably  the  seal  of 
human  greatness  which  most  nearly  approaches  the  divine ; 
conviction  had  set  its  mark  on  him,  and  a  conviction  brings 
a  salient  indefinable  beauty  into  faces  made  of  the  commonest 
human  clay ;  the  devout  worshiper  at  any  shrine  reflects  some- 
thing of  its  golden  glow ;  even  as  the  glory  of  a  noble  love 
shines  like  a  sort  of  light  from  a  woman's  face.  Conviction 
is  human  will  come  to  its  full  strength ;  and  being  at  once  the 
cause  and  the  effect,  conviction  impresses  the  most  indiff'erent, 
it  is  a  kind  of  mute  eloquence  which  gains  a  hold  upon  the 
masses. 

As  the  cur6  came  down  from  the  altar,  his  eyes  fell  on  the 
Abbe  Gabriel,  whom  he  recognized  ;  but  when  the  bishop's 
secretary  appeared  in  the  sacristy,  he  found  no  one  there  but 
Ursule.  Her  master  had  already  given  his  orders.  Ursule, 
a  woman  of  canonical  age,  asked  the  Abbe  de  Rastignac  to 
follow  her  along  the  passage  through  the  garden. 

"  Monsieur  le  Cure  told  me  to  ask  you  whether  you  had 
breakfasted,  sir,"  she  said.  "  You  must  have  started  out  from 
Limoges  very  early  this  morning  to  be  here  by  ten  o'clock, 
so  I  will  set  about  getting  breakfast  ready.  Monsieur  I'Abbe 
will  not  find  the  bishop's  table  here,  but  we  will  do  our  best. 
M.  Bonnet  will  not  be  long ;  he  has  gone  to  comfort  those 
poor  souls — the  Tascherons.  Something  very  terrible  is  hap- 
pening to-day  to  one  of  their  sons." 

"But  where  do  the  poor  people  live?"  the  Abbe  Gabriel 
put  in  at  length.  "  I  must  take  M.  Bonnet  back  to  Limoges 
with  me  at  once  by  the  bishop's  orders.  The  unhappy  man 
is  not  to  be  executed  to-day  ;  his  lordship  has  obtained  a  re- 
prieve  " 

"Ah!"  cried  Ursule,  her  tongue  itching  to  spread  the 


102  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

news.  "There  will  be  plenty  of  time  to  take  that  comfort  to 
the  poor  things  whilst  I  am  getting  breakfast  ready.  The 
Tascherons  live  at  the  other  end  of  the  village.  You  follow 
the  path  under  the  terrace,  that  will  take  you  to  the  house." 

As  soon  as  the  Abb6  Gabriel  was  fairly  out  of  sight,  Ursule 
went  down  herself  to  take  the  tidings  to  the  village,  and  to 
obtain  the  things  needed  for  breakfast. 

The  cure  had  learned,  for  the  first  time,  at  the  church  of  a 
desperate  resolve  on  the  part  of  the  Tascherons,  made  since 
the  appeal  had  been  rejected.  They  would  leave  the  district ; 
they  had  already  sold  all  they  had,  and  that  very  morning  the 
money  was  to  be  paid  down.  Formalities  and  unforeseen 
delays  had  retarded  the  sale ;  they  had  been  forced  to  stay  in 
the  countryside  after  Jean-Francois  was  condemned,  and  every 
day  had  been  for  them  a  cup  of  bitterness  to  drink.  The 
news  of  the  plan,  carried  out  so  secretly,  had  only  transpired 
on  the  eve  of  the  day  fixed  for  the  execution.  The  Tascherons 
had  meant  to  leave  the  place  before  the  fatal  day ;  but  the 
purchaser  of  their  property  was  a  stranger  to  the  canton,  a 
Correzien  to  whom  their  motives  were  indifferent,  and  he  on 
his  own  part  had  found  some  difficulty  in  getting  the  money 
together.  So  the  family  had  endured  the  utmost  of  their 
misery.  So  strong  was  the  feeling  of  their  disgrace  in  these 
simple  folk  who  had  never  tampered  with  conscience,  that 
grandfather  and  grandmother,  daughters  and  sons-in-law, 
father  and  mother,  and  all  who  bore  the  name  of  Tascheron, 
or  were  connected  with  them,  were  leaving  the  place.  Every 
one  in  the  commune  was  sorry  that  they  should  go,  and  the 
mayor  had  gone  to  the  cur6,  entreating  him  to  use  his  influ- 
ence with  the  poor  mourners. 

As  the  law  now  stands,  the  father  is  no  longer  responsible 
for  his  son's  crime,  and  the  father's  guilt  does  not  attach  to 
his  children,  a  condition  of  things  in  keeping  with  other 
emancipations  which  have  weakened  the  paternal  power,  and 
contributed  to  the  triumph  of  that  individualism  which  is 


THE   CUR^   OF  MONT&GNAC.  103 

eating  the  heart  of  society  in  our  days.  The  thinker  who 
looks  to  the  future  sees  the  extinction  of  the  spirit  of  the 
family ;  those  who  drew  up  the  new  code  have  set  in  its  place 
equality  and  independent  opinion.  The  family  will  always 
be  the  basis  of  society ;  and  now  the  family,  as  it  used  to  be, 
exists  no  longer,  it  has  come  of  necessity  to  be  a  temporary 
arrangement,  continually  broken  up  and  reunited  only  to  be 
separated  again  ;  the  links  between  the  future  and  the  past  are 
destroyed,  the  family  of  an  older  time  has  ceased  to  exist  in 
France.  Those  who  proceeded  to  the  demolition  of  the  old 
social  edifice  were  logical  when  they  decided  that  each  mem- 
ber of  the  family  should  inherit  equally,  lessening  the  authority 
of  the  father,  making  of  each  child  the  head  of  a  new  house- 
hold, suppressing  great  responsibilities;  but  is  the  social 
system  thus  re-edified  as  solid  a  structure,  with  its  laws  of 
yesterday  unproved  by  long  experience,  as  the  old  monarchy 
was  in  spite  of  its  abuses  ?  With  the  solidarity  of  the  family, 
society  has  lost  that  elemental  force  which  Montesquieu  dis- 
covered and  called  "honor."  Society  has  isolated  its  mem- 
bers the  better  to  govern  them,  and  has  divided  in  order  to 
weaken.  The  social  system  reigns  over  so  many  units,  an 
aggregation  of  so  many  ciphers,  piled  up  like  grains  of  wheat 
in  a  heap.  Can  the  general  welfare  take  the  place  of  the 
welfare  of  the  family  ?  Time  holds  the  answer  to  this  great 
enigma.  And  yet — the  old  order  still  exists,  it  is  so  deeply 
rooted  that  you  find  it  most  alive  among  the  people.  It  is 
still  an  active  force  in  remote  districts  where  "prejudice,"  as 
it  is  called,  likewise  exists ;  in  old-world  nooks  where  all  the 
members  of  a  family  suflfer  for  the  crime  of  one,  and  the  chil- 
dren for  the  sins  of  their  fathers. 

It  was  this  belief  which  made  their  own  countryside  intoler- 
able to  the  Tascherons.  Their  profoundly  religious  natures  had 
brought  them  to  the  church  that  morning,  for  how  was  it  pos- 
sible to  stay  away  when  the  mass  was  said  for  their  son,  and 
prayer  offered   that  God  might   bring   him  to  a  repentance 


104  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

which  should  reopen  eternal  life  to  him  ?  and,  moreover,  must 
they  not  take  leave  of  the  village  altar?  But,  for  all  that, 
their  plans  were  made;  and  when  the  cure,  who  followed 
them,  entered  the  principal  house,  he  found  the  bundles  made 
up,  ready  for  the  journey.  The  purchaser  was  waiting  with 
the  money.  The  notary  had  just  made  out  the  receipt.  Out 
in  the  yard,  in  front  of  the  house,  stood  a  country  cart  ready 
to  take  the  old  people  and  the  money  and  Jean-Francois' 
mother.  The  rest  of  the  family  meant  to  set  out  on  foot  that 
night. 

The  young  abbe  entered  the  room  on  the  ground  floor 
where  the  whole  family  were  assembled,  just  as  the  cure  of 
Montdgnac  had  exhausted  all  his  eloquence.  The  two  old 
people  seemed  to  have  ceased  to  feel  from  excess  of  grief; 
they  were  crouching  on  their  bundles  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
gazing  round  them  at  the  old  house,  which  had  been  a  family 
possession  from  father  to  son,  at  the  familiar  furniture,  at  the 
man  who  had  bought  it  all,  and  then  at  each  other,  as  who 
should  say,  *'  Who  would  have  thought  that  we  should  ever 
have  come  to  this?"  For  a  long  time  past  the  old  people 
had  resigned  their  authority  to  their  son,  the  prisoner's  father; 
and  now,  like  old  kings  after  their  abdication,  they  played  the 
passive  part  of  subjects  and  children.  Tascheron  stood 
upright  listening  to  the  cure,  to  whom  he  gave  answers  in  a 
deep  voice  by  monosyllables.  He  was  a  man  of  forty-eight 
or  thereabouts,  with  a  fine  face,  such  as  served  Titian  for  his 
apostles.  It  was  a  trustworthy  face,  gravely  honest  and 
thoughtful ;  a  severe  profile,  a  nose  at  right  angles  with  the 
brows,  blue  eyes,  a  noble  forehead,  regular  features,  dark, 
crisped,  stubborn  hair,  growing  in  the  symmetrical  fashion 
which  adds  a  charm  to  a  visage  bronzed  by  a  life  of  work  in 
the  open  air — this  was  the  present  head  of  the  house.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  the  curb's  arguments  were  shattered  against 
that  resolute  will. 

Denise  was  leaning  against  the  bread  hutch,  watching  the 


THE   CUR&    OF  MONT&GNAC.  106 

notary,  who  used  it  as  a  writing-table ;  they  had  given  him 
the  grandmother's  armchair.  The  man  who  had  bought  the 
place  sat  beside  the  scrivener.  The  two  married  sisters 
were  laying  the  cloth  for  the  last  meal  which  the  old  folk 
would  offer  or  partake  of  in  the  old  house  and  in  their  own 
country  before  they  set  out  to  live  beneath  alien  skies.  The 
men  of  the  family  half-stood,  half-sat,  propped  against  the 
large  bedstead  with  the  green  serge  curtains,  while  Tascheron's 
wife,  their  mother,  was  whisking  an  omelette  by  the  fire.  The 
grandchildren  crowded  about  the  doorway,  and  the  pur- 
chaser's family  were  outside. 

Out  of  the  window  you  could  see  the  garden,  carefully  cul- 
tivated, stocked  with  fruit  trees;  the  two  old  people  had 
planted  them — every  one.  Everything  about  them,  like  the 
old  smoke-begrimed  room  with  its  black  rafters,  seemed  to 
share  in  the  pent-up  sorrow,  which  could  be  read  in  so  many 
different  expressions  on  the  different  faces.  The  meal  was 
being  prepared  for  the  notary,  the  purchaser,  the  children, 
and  the  men ;  neither  the  father,  nor  mother,  nor  Denise,  nor 
her  sisters  cared  to  satisfy  their  hunger,  their  hearts  were  too 
heavily  oppressed.  There  was  a  lofty  and  heart-rending 
resignation  in  this  last  performance  of  the  duties  of  country 
hospitality — the  Tascherons,  men  of  an  ancient  stock,  ended 
as  people  usually  begin,  by  doing  the  honors  of  their  house. 

The  bishop's  secretary  was  impressed  by  the  scene,  so  simple 
and  natural,  yet  so  solemn,  which  met  his  eyes  as  he  came  to 
summon  the  cure  of  Montegnac  to  do  the  bishop's  bidding. 

•'  The  good  man's  son  is  still  alive,"  Gabriel  said,  address- 
ing the  cure. 

At  the  words,  which  every  one  heard  in  the  prevailing 
silence,  the  two  old  people  sprang  to  their  feet  as  if  the  trumpet 
had  sounded  for  the  last  judgment.  The  mother  dropped  her 
frying-pan  into  the  fire.  A  cry  of  joy  broke  from  Denise. 
All  the  others  seemed  to  be  turned  to  stone  in  their  dull 
amazement. 


106  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

^^Jean-Francois  is  pardoned!'^  The  cry  came  at  that 
moment  as  from  one  voice  from  the  whole  village,  who  rushed 
up  to  the  Tascherons'  house.     *'  It  is  his  lordship  the  bishop. 

"  I  was  sure  of  his  innocence  !  "  exclaimed  the  mother. 

"  The  purchase  holds  good  all  the  same,  doesn't  it  ?  "  asked 
the  buyer,  and  the  notary  answered  him  by  a  nod. 

In  a  moment  the  Abbe  Gabriel  became  the  point  of  interest, 
all  eyes  were  fixed  on  him;  his  face  was  so  sad  that  it  was 
suspected  that  there  was  some  mistake,  but  he  could  not  bear 
to  correct  it,  and  went  out  with  the  cure.  Outside  the  house 
he  dismissed  the  crowd  by  telling  those  who  came  round 
about  him  that  there  was  no  pardon,  only  a  reprieve,  and  a 
dismayed  silence  at  once  succeeded  to  the  clamor.  Gabriel 
and  the  cure  turned  into  the  house  again,  and  saw  a  look  of 
anguish  on  all  the  faces — the  sudden  silence  in  the  village  had 
been  understood. 

"Jean-Francois  has  not  received  his  pardon,  my  friends," 
said  the  young  abbe,  seeing  that  the  blow  had  been  struck, 
"but  my  lord  bishop's  anxiety  for  his  soul  is  so  great  that  he 
has  put  off  the  execution  that  your  son  may  not  perish  to  all 
eternity  at  least." 

"Then  is  he  living?"  cried  Denise. 

The  abb6  took  the  cur6  aside  and  told  him  of  his  parish- 
ioner's impiety,  of  the  consequent  peril  to  religion,  and  what 
it  was  that  the  bishop  expected  of  the  cure  of  Montdgnac. 

"My  lord  bishop  requires  my  death,"  returned  the  cur6. 
"Already  I  have  refused  to  go  to  this  unhappy  boy  when  his 
afflicted  family  asked  me.  The  meeting  and  the  scene  there 
afterwards  would  shatter  me  like  glass.  Let  every  man  do  his 
work.  The  weakness  of  my  system,  or  rather  the  oversensi- 
tiveness  of  my  nervous  organization,  makes  it  out  of  the 
question  for  me  to  fulfill  these  duties  of  our  ministry.  I  am 
still  a  country  parson  that  I  may  serve  my  like,  in  a  sphere 
where  nothing  more  is  demanded  of  me  in  a  Christian  life 
than  I  can  accomplish.     I  thought  very  carefully  over  this 


" AH  I     SAVE    HIS    SOUL    AT    LEAST!' 


THE   CURi:    OF  MONTJkGNAC.  107 

matter,  and  tried  to  satisfy  these  good  Tascherons  and  to  do 
my  duty  towards  this  poor  boy  of  theirs ;  but  at  the  bare 
thought  of  mounting  the  cart  with  him,  the  mere  idea  of 
being  present  while  the  preparations  for  death  were  being 
made,  a  deadly  chill  runs  through  my  veins.  No  one  would 
ask  it  of  a  mother ;  and  remember,  sir,  he  is  a  child  of  my 
poor  church " 

"Then  you  refuse  to  obey  the  bishop's  summons?"  asked 
the  Abbe  Gabriel. 

M.  Bonnet  looked  at  him. 

"  His  lordship  does  not  know  the  state  of  my  health," 
he  said,  "  nor  does  he  know  that  my  nature  rises  in  revolt 
against ' ' 

"There  are  times  when,  like  Belzunce  at  Marseilles,  we  are 
bound  to  face  a  certain  death,"  the  Abbe  Gabriel  broke  in. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  cure  felt  that  a  hand  pulled  his 
cassock ;  he  heard  sobs,  and,  turning,  saw  the  whole  family 
on  their  knees.  Old  and  young,  parents  and  children,  men 
and  women,  held  out  their  hands  to  him  imploringly ;  all  the 
voices  united  in  one  cry  as  he  showed  his  flushed  face. 

**  Ah  !  save  his  soul  at  least !  " 

It  was  the  old  grandmother  who  had  caught  at  the  skirt  of 
his  cassock  and  was  bathing  it  with  tears. 

"  I  will  obey,  sir "     No  sooner  were  the  words  uttered 

than  the  cur6  was  forced  to  sit  down  ;  his  knees  trembled 
under  him.  The  young  secretary  explained  the  nature  of 
Jean-Francois'  frenzy. 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  sight  of  his  younger  sister  might 
shake  him? "  he  added,  as  he  came  to  an  end. 

"Yes,  certainly,"  returned  the  cure.  "  Denise,  you  will 
go  with  us." 

"So  shall  I,"  said  the  mother. 

"No!"  shouted  the  father.  "That  boy  is  dead  to  us. 
You  know  that.     Not  one  of  us  shall  see  him." 

"  Do  not  stand  in  the  way  of  his  salvation,"  said  the 


108  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

young  abb6.  "  If  you  refuse  us  the  means  of  softening  him, 
you  take  the  responsibility  of  his  soul  upon  yourself.  In  his 
present  state  his  death  may  reflect  more  discredit  on  his  family 
than  his  life." 

"  She  shall  go,"  said  the  father.  "She  always  interfered 
when  I  tried  to  correct  my  son,  and  this  shall  be  her  punish- 
ment." 

The  Abb6  Gabriel  and  M.  Bonnet  went  back  together  to 
the  parsonage.  It  was  arranged  that  Denise  and  her  mother 
should  be  there  at  the  time  when  the  two  ecclesiastics  should 
set  out  for  Limoges.  As  they  followed  the  footpath  s  long  the 
outskirts  of  Upper  Montegnac,  the  younger  man  had  an 
opportunity  of  looking  more  closely  than  heretofore  in  the 
church  at  this  country  parson,  so  highly  praised  by  the  vicar- 
general.  He  was  favorably  impressed  almost  at  once  by  his 
companion's  simple,  dignified  manners,  by  the  magic  of  his 
voice,  and  by  the  words  he  spoke,  in  keeping  with  the  voice. 
The  cur6  had  been  but  once  to  the  palace  since  the  bishop 
had  taken  Gabriel  de  Rastignac  as  his  secretary,  so  that  he 
had  scarcely  seen  the  favorite  destined  to  be  a  bishop  some 
day ;  he  knew  that  the  secretary  had  great  influence,  and  yet 
in  the  dignified  kindness  of  his  manner  there  was  a  certain 
independence,  as  of  the  cur6  whom  the  Church  permits  to  be 
in  some  sort  a  sovereign  in  his  own  parish. 

As  for  the  young  abb6,  his  feelings  were  so  far  from  appear- 
ing in  his  face  that  they  seemed  to  have  hardened  it  into 
severity  j  his  expression  was  not  chilly,  it  was  glacial. 

A  man  who  could  change  the  disposition  and  manners  of  a 
whole  countryside  necessarily  possessed  some  faculty  of  ob- 
servation, and  was  more  or  less  of  a  physiognomist ;  and  even 
had  the  cur6  been  wise  only  in  well-doing,  he  had  just  given 
proof  of  an  unusually  keen  sensibility.  The  coolness  with 
which  the  bishop's  secretary  met  his  advances  and  responded 
to  his  friendliness  struck  him  at  once.  He  could  only  account 
for  this  reception  by  some  secret  dissatisfaction  on  the  other's 


THE   CURE    OF  MONTEGNAC.  109 

part,  and  looked  back  over  his  conduct,  wondering  how  he 
could  have  given  offense,  and  in  what  the  offense  lay.  There 
was  a  short  embarrassing  silence,  broken  by  the  Abbe  de 
Rastignac. 

"You  have  a  very  poor  church,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  he 
remarked,  aristocratic  insolence  in  his  tones  and  words. 

"It  is  too  small,"  answered  M.  Bonnet.  "For  great 
church  festivals  the  old  people  sit  on  benches  round  the 
porch,  and  the  younger  ones  stand  in  a  circle  in  the  square 
down  below;  but  they  are  so  silent  that  those  outside  can 
hear." 

Gabriel  was  silent  for  several  moments. 

**  If  the  people  are  so  devout,  why  do  you  leave  the  church 
so  bare?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"Alas  !  sir,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  spend  money  on  the 
building  when  the  poor  need  it.  The  poor  are  the  church. 
Besides,  I  should  not  fear  a  visitation  from  my  lord  bishop  at 
the  Fete-Dieu  I  Then  the  poor  give  the  church  such  things 
as  they  have  !  Did  you  notice  the  nails  along  the  walls  ? 
They  fix  a  sort  of  wire  trellis  work  to  them,  which  the  women 
cover  with  bunches  of  flowers ;  the  whole  church  is  dressed  in 
flowers,  as  it  were,  which  keep  fresh  till  the  evening.  My 
poor  church,  which  looked  so  bare  to  you,  is  adorned  like  a 
bride,  and  fragrant  with  sweet  scents  ;  the  ground  is  strewn 
with  leaves,  and  a  path  in  the  midst  for  the  passage  of  the 
Holy  Sacrament  is  carpeted  with  rose  petals.  For  that  one 
day  I  need  not  fear  comparison  with  Saint  Peter's  at  Rome. 
The  Holy  Father  has  his  gold,  and  I  my  flowers ;  to  each  his 
miracle.  Ah  !  the  township  of  Montegnac  is  poor,  but  it  is 
Catholic.  Once  upon  a  time  they  used  to  rob  travelers,  now 
any  one  who  passes  through  the  place  might  drop  a  bag  full 
of  money  here,  and  he  would  find  it  when  he  returned 
home." 

"Such  a  result  speaks  strongly  in  your  praise,"  said 
Gabriel. 


110  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"I  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  answered  the  cure, 
flushing  at  this  incisive  epigram.  "  It  has  been  brought  about 
by  the  Word  of  God  and  the  sacramental  bread." 

*'  Bread  somewhat  brown,"  said  the  Abbe  Gabriel,  smiling. 

"White  bread  is  only  suited  to  the  rich,"  said  the  cure 
humbly. 

The  abbe  took  both  M.  Bonnet's  hands  in  his  and  grasped 
them  cordially. 

"  Pardon  me.  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  he  said  ;  and  in  a  moment 
the  reconciliation  was  completed  by  a  look  in  the  beautiful 
blue  eyes  that  went  to  the  depths  of  the  cure's  soul. 

"  My  lord  bishop  recommended  me  to  put  your  patience 
and  humility  to  the  proof,  but  I  can  go  no  farther.  After  this 
little  while  I  see  how  greatly  you  have  been  wronged  by  the 
praises  of  the  Liberal  party." 

Breakfast  was  ready.  Ursule  had  spread  the  white  cloth, 
and  set  new-laid  eggs,  butter,  honey  and  fruit,  cream  and 
coffee,  among  bunches  of  flowers  on  the  old-fashioned  table 
in  the  old-fashioned  sitting-room.  The  window  that  looked 
out  upon  the  terrace  stood  open,  framed  about  with  green 
leaves.  Clematis  grew  about  the  ledge — white  starry  blossoms, 
with  tiny  sheaves  of  golden  crinkled  stamens  at  their  hearts 
to  relieve  the  white.  Jessamine  climbed  up  one  side  of  the 
window,  and  nasturtiums  on  the  other  ;  above  it,  a  trail  of 
vine,  turning  red  even  now,  made  a  rich  setting,  which  no 
sculptor  could  hope  to  render,  so  full  of  grace  was  that  lace- 
work  of  leaves  outlined  against  the  sky. 

"  You  will  find  life  here  reduced  to  its  simplest  terms,"  said 
the  cur6,  smiling,  though  his  face  did  not  belie  the  sadness  of 
his  heart,  "If  we  had  known  that  you  were  coming — and 
who  could  have  foreseen  the  events  which  have  brought  you 
here  ? — Ursule  would  have  had  some  trout  for  you  from  the 
torrent ;  there  is  a  trout-stream  in  the  forest,  and  the  fish  are 
excellent ;  but  I  am  forgetting  that  this  is  August,  and  that 
the  Gabou  will  be  dry  !     My  head  is  very  much  confused " 


THE   CURE    OF  MONTJEGNAC.  Ill 

"  Are  you  very  fond  of  this  place  ?  "  asked  the  abb6. 

"  Yes.  If  God  permits,  I  shall  die  cure  of  Montdgnac. 
I  could  wish  that  other  and  distinguished  men,  who  have 
thought  to  do  better  by  becoming  lay  philanthropists,  had 
taken  this  way  of  mine.  Modern  philanthropy  is  the  bane 
of  society  ;  the  principles  of  the  Catholic  religion  are  the  one 
remedy  for  the  evils  which  leaven  the  body  social.  Instead  of 
describing  the  disease  and  making  it  worse  by  jeremiads,  each 
one  should  have  put  his  hand  to  the  plough  and  entered  God's 
vineyard  as  a  simple  laborer.  My  task  is  far  from  being  ended 
here,  sir ;  it  is  not  enough  to  have  raised  the  moral  standard 
of  the  people,  who  lived  in  a  frightful  state  of  irreligion  when 
I  first  came  here  ;  I  would  fain  die  among  a  generation  fully 
convinced." 

"You  have  only  done  your  duty,"  the  younger  man 
retorted  drily ;  he  felt  a  pang  of  jealousy  in  his  heart. 

The  other  gave  him  a  keen  glance. 

"Is  this  yet  another  test?"  he  seemed  to  say — but  aloud 
he  answered  humbly,  "  Yes.  I  wish  every  hour  of  my  life," 
he  added,  "that  every  one  in  the  kingdom  would  do  his 
duty." 

The  deep  underlying  significance  of  those  words  was  still 
further  increased  by  the  tone  in  which  they  were  spoken.  It 
was  clear  that  here,  in  this  year  1829,  was  a  priest  of  great 
intellectual  power,  great  likewise  in  the  simplicity  of  his  life  ; 
who,  though  he  did  not  set  up  his  own  judgment  against  that 
of  his  superiors,  saw  none  the  less  clearly  whither  the  church 
and  the  monarchy  were  going. 

When  the  mother  and  daughter  had  come,  the  abbe  left 
the  parsonage  and  went  down  to  see  if  the  horses  had  been 
put  in.  He  was  very  impatient  to  return  to  Limoges.  A  few 
minutes  later  he  returned  to  say  that  all  was  in  readiness  for 
their  departure,  and  the  four  set  out  on  their  journey.  Every 
creature  in  Mont6gnac  stood  in  the  road  about  the  posthouse 
to  see  them  go.     The  condemned  man's  mother  and  sister 


lia  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

said  not  a  word ;  and  as  for  the  two  ecclesiastics,  there  were 
so  many  topics  to  be  avoided  that  conversation  was  difficult, 
and  they  could  neither  appear  indifferent  nor  try  to  take  a 
cheerful  tone.  Still  endeavoring  to  discover  some  neutral 
ground  for  their  talk  as  they  traveled  on,  the  influences  of  the 
great  plain  seemed  to  prolong  the  melancholy  silence. 

"  What  made  you  accept  the  position  of  an  ecclesiastic  ?  " 
Gabriel  asked  at  last  out  of  idle  curiosity,  as  the  carriage 
turned  into  the  high-road. 

**  I  have  never  regarded  my  office  as  a  *  position,'  "  the  cur6 
answered  simply.  **  I  cannot  understand  how  any  one  can 
take  holy  orders  for  any  save  the  one  indefinable  and  all- 
powerful  reason — a  vocation.  I  know  that  not  a  few  have 
become  laborers  in  the  great  vineyard  with  hearts  worn  out 
in  the  service  of  the  passions ;  men  who  have  loved  without 
hope,  or  whose  hopes  have  been  disappointed ;  men  whose 
lives  were  blighted  when  they  laid  the  wife  or  the  woman 
they  loved  in  the  grave  ;  men  grown  weary  of  life  in  a  world 
where  in  these  times  nothing,  not  even  sentiments,  are  stable 
and  secure,  where  doubt  makes  sport  of  the  sweetest  certain- 
ties, and  belief  is  called  superstition. 

*'  Some  leave  political  life  in  times  when  to  be  in  power 
seems  to  be  a  sort  of  expiation,  when  those  who  are  governed 
look  on  obedience  as  an  unfortunate  necessity;  and  very  many 
leave  a  battlefield  without  standards  where  powers,  by  nature 
opposed,  combine  to  defeat  and  dethrone  the  right.  I  am 
not  supposing  that  any  man  can  give  himself  to  God  for  what 
he  may  gain.  There  are  some  who  appear  to  see  in  the  clergy 
a  means  of  regenerating  our  country;  but,  according  to  my 
dim  lights,  the  patriot  priest  is  a  contradiction  in  terms.  The 
priest  should  belong  to  God  alone. 

"  I  had  no  wish  to  offer  to  our  Father,  who  yet  accepts  all 
things,  a  broken  heart  and  an  enfeebled  will ;  I  gave  myself 
to  Him  whole  and  entire.  It  was  a  touching  fancy  in  the  old 
pagan  religion  which  brought  the  victim  crowned  with  flowers 


THE   CURE   OF  MONTEGNAC.  113 

to  the  temple  of  the  gods  for  sacrifice.  There  is  something 
in  that  custom  that  has  always  appealed  to  me.  A  sacrifice  is 
nothing  unless  it  is  made  graciously.  So  the  story  of  my  life 
is  very  simple,  there  is  not  the  least  touch  of  romance  in  it. 
Still,  if  you  would  like  to  hear  a  full  confession,  I  will  tell 
you  all  about  myself. 

"  My  family  are  well-to-do  and  almost  wealthy.  My  father, 
a  self-made  man,  is  hard  and  inflexible ;  he  deals  the  same 
measure  to  himself  as  to  his  wife  and  children.  I  have  never 
seen  the  faintest  smile  on  his  lips.  With  a  hand  of  iron,  a 
brow  of  bronze,  and  an  energetic  nature  at  once  sullen  and 
morose,  he  crushed  us  all — wife  and  children,  clerks  and  ser- 
vants, beneath  a  savage  tyranny.  I  think  (I  speak  for  myself 
alone)  that  I  could  have  borne  the  life  if  the  pressure  brought 
to  bear  on  us  had  been  even ;  but  he  was  crotchety  and 
changeable,  and  this  fitfulness  made  it  unbearable.  We  never 
knew  whether  we  had  done  right  or  wrong,  and  the  horrible 
suspense  in  which  we  lived  at  home  becomes  intolerable  in 
domestic  life.  It  is  pleasanter  to  be  out  in  the  streets  than  in 
the  house.  Even  as  it  was,  if  I  had  been  alone  at  home,  I 
could  have  borne  all  this  without  a  murmur ;  but  there  was 
my  mother,  whom  I  loved  passionately ;  the  sight  of  her  mis- 
ery and  the  continual  bitterness  of  her  life  broke  my  heart ; 
and  if,  as  sometimes  happened,  I  surprised  her  in  tears,  I  was 
beside  myself  with  rage.  I  was  sent  to  school ;  and  those 
years,  usually  a  time  of  hardship  and  drudgery,  were  a  sort  of 
golden  age  for  me.  I  dreaded  the  holidays.  My  mother  her- 
self was  glad  to  come  to  see  me  at  the  school. 

"  When  I  had  finished  my  humanities,  I  went  home  and 
entered  my  father's  office,  but  I  could  only  stay  there  a  few 
months ;  youth  was  strong  in  me,  my  mind  might  have  given 
way. 

"One  dreary  autumn  evening  my  mother  and  I  took  a 
walk  by  ourselves  along  the  Boulevard  Bourdon,  then  one  of 
the  most  depressing  spots  in  Paris,  and  there  I  opened  my 
8 


114  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

heart  to  her.  I  said  that  I  saw  no  possible  life  for  me  save  in 
the  church.  So  long  as  my  father  lived  I  was  bound  to  be 
thwarted  in  my  tastes,  my  ideas,  even  in  my  affections.  If  I 
adopted  the  priest's  cassock,  he  would  be  compelled  to 
respect  me,  and  in  this  way  I  might  become  a  tower  of 
strength  to  the  family  should  occasion  call  for  it.  My  mother 
cried  bitterly.  At  that  very  time  my  older  brother  had 
enlisted  as  a  common  soldier,  driven  out  of  the  house  by  the 
causes  which  had  decided  my  vocation.  (He  became  a 
general  afterwards,  and  fell  in  the  battle  of  Leipsic.)  I 
pointed  out  to  my  mother  as  a  way  of  salvation  for  her  that 
she  should  marry  my  sister  (as  soon  as  she  should  be  old 
enough  to  settle  in  life)  to  a  man  with  plenty  of  character, 
and  look  to  this  new  family  for  support. 

**  So  in  1807,  under  the  pretext  of  escaping  the  conscrip- 
tion without  expense  to  my  father,  and  at  the  same  time  de- 
claring my  vocation,  I  entered  the  Seminary  of  Saint-Sulpice 
at  the  age  of  nineteen.  Within  those  famous  old  walls  I 
found  happiness  and  peace,  troubled  only  by  thoughts  of 
what  my  mother  and  sister  must  be  enduring.  Things  had 
doubtless  grown  worse  and  worse  at  home,  for  when  they  came 
to  see  me  they  upheld  me  in  my  determination.  Initiated, 
it  may  be,  by  my  own  pain  into  the  secret  of  charity,  as  the 
great  apostle  has  defined  it  in  his  sublime  epistle,  I  longed  to 
bind  the  wounds  of  the  poor  and  suffering  in  some  out-of-the- 
way  spot ;  and  thereafter  to  prove,  if  God  deigned  to  bless  my 
efforts,  that  the  Catholic  religion,  as  put  in  practice  by  man, 
is  the  one  true,  good,  and  noble  civilizing  agent  on  earth. 

"During  those  last  days  of  my  diaconate,  grace  doubtless 
enlightened  me.  Fully  and  freely  I  forgave  my  father,  for  I 
saw  that  through  him  I  had  found  my  real  vocation.  But  my 
mother — in  spite  of  a  long  and  tender  letter,  in  which  I  ex- 
plained this,  and  showed  how  the  trace  of  the  finger  of  God 
was  visible  throughout — my  mother  shed  many  tears  when  she 
saw  my  hair  fall  under  the  scissors  of  the  church ;    for  she 


THE   CUK£    of  M0NT£GNAC.  115 

knew  how  many  joys  I  was  renouncing,  and  did  not  know  the 
hidden  glories  to  which  I  aspired.  Women  are  so  tender- 
hearted. When  at  last  I  was  God's,  I  felt  an  infinite  peace. 
All  the  cravings,  the  vanities,  and  cares  that  vex  so  many 
souls  fell  away  from  me.  I  thought  that  heaven  would  have 
a  care  for  me  as  for  a  vessel  of  its  own.  I  went  forth  into  a 
world  from  which  all  fear  was  driven  out,  where  the  future 
was  sure,  where  everything  is  the  work  of  God — even  the 
silence.  This  quietness  of  soul  is  one  of  the  gifts  of  grace. 
My  mother  could  not  imagine  what  it  was  to  take  a  church  for 
a  bride  ;  nevertheless,  when  she  saw  that  I  looked  serene  and 
happy,  she  was  happy.  After  my  ordination  I  came  to  pay  a 
visit  to  some  of  my  father's  relatives  in  Limousin,  and  one  of 
these  by  accident  spoke  of  the  state  of  things  in  the  Mon- 
tegnac  district.  With  a  sudden  illumination  like  lightning 
the  thought  flashed  through  my  inmost  soul — '  Behold  thy 
vine !  *  And  I  came  here.  So,  as  you  see,  sir,  my  story  is 
quite  simple  and  uninteresting." 

As  he  spoke,  Limoges  appeared  in  the  rays  of  the  sunset, 
and  at  the  sight  the  two  women  could  not  keep  back  their 
tears. 

Meanwhile  the  young  man  whom  love  in  its  separate  guises 
had  come  to  find,  the  object  of  so  much  outspoken  curiosity, 
hypocritical  sympathy,  and  very  keen  anxiety,  was  lying  on 
his  prison  mattress  in  the  condemned  cell.  A  spy  at  the  door 
was  on  the  watch  for  any  words  that  might  escape  him  waking 
or  sleeping,  or  in  one  of  his  wild  fits  of  fury  ;  so  bent  was 
justice  upon  coming  at  the  truth,  and  on  discovering  Jean- 
Frangois'  accomplice  as  well  as  the  stolen  money,  by  every 
means  that  the  wit  of  man  could  devise. 

The  des  Vanneaulx  had  the  police  in  their  interest ;  the 
police  spies  watched  through  the  absolute  silence.  Whenever 
the  man  told  off  for  this  duty  looked  through  the  hole  made 
for  the  purpose,  he  always  saw  the  prisoner  in  the  same  atti- 


116  THE   COUNTRY  PARSOM 

tude,  bound  in  his  strait  waistcoat,  his  head  tied  up  by  a 
leather  strap  to  prevent  him  from  tearing  the  stuff  and  the 
thongs  with  his  teeth.  Jean-Frangois  lay  staring  at  the  ceil- 
ing with  a  fixed  desperate  gaze,  his  eyes  glowed,  and  seemed 
as  if  they  were  reddened  by  the  full-pulsed  tide  of  life  sent 
surging  through  him  by  terrible  thoughts.  It  was  as  if  an 
antique  statue  of  Prometheus  had  become  a  living  man,  with 
the  thought  of  some  lost  joy  gnawing  his  heart ;  so  when  the 
second  avocat  general  came  to  see  him,  the  visitor  could  not 
help  showing  his  surprise  at  a  character  so  dogged.  At  sight 
of  any  human  being  admitted  into  his  cell,  Jean-Frangois 
flew  into  a  rage  which  exceeded  everything  in  the  doctor's 
experience  of  such  affections.  As  soon  as  he  heard  the  key 
turn  in  the  lock  or  the  bolts  drawn  in  the  heavily-ironed  door, 
a  light  froth  came  to  his  lips. 

In  person,  Jean-Francois  Tascheron,  twenty-five  years  of 
age,  was  short  but  well  made.  His  hair  was  stiff  and  crisp, 
and  grew  rather  low  on  his  forehead,  signs  of  great  energy. 
The  clear,  brilliant,  yellow  eyes,  set  rather  too  close  together, 
gave  him  something  the  look  of  a  bird  of  prey.  His  face  was 
of  the  round  dark-skinned  type  common  in  Central  France. 
One  of  his  characteristics  confirmed  Lavater's  assertion  that 
the  front  teeth  overlap  in  those  predestined  to  be  murderers ; 
but  the  general  expression  of  his  face  spoke  of  honesty,  of 
simple  warm-heartedness  of  disposition — it  would  have  been 
nothing  extraordinary  if  a  woman  had  loved  such  a  man  pas- 
sionately. The  lines  of  the  fresh  mouth,  with  its  dazzling 
white  teeth,  were  gracious ;  there  was  that  peculiar  shade  in 
the  scarlet  of  the  lips  which  indicates  ferocity  held  in  check, 
and  frequently  a  temperament  which  thirsts  for  pleasure  and 
demands  free  scope  for  indulgence.  There  was  nothing  of 
the  workman's  coarseness  about  him.  To  the  women  who 
watched  his  trial  it  seemed  evident  that  it  was  a  woman  who 
had  brought  flexibility  and  softness  into  the  fibre  inured  to 
toil,  the  look  of  distinction  into  the  face   of  a  son  of  the 


THE   CURJt    OF  MONTAGNAC.  117 

fields,  and  grace  into  his  bearing.  Women  recognize  the 
traces  of  love  in  a  man,  and  men  are  quick  to  see  in  a  woman 
whether  (to  use  a  colloquial  phrase),  "  love  has  passed  that 
way." 

That  evening  Jean-Frangois  heard  the  sound  as  the  bolts 
were  withdrawn  and  the  key  was  thrust  into  the  lock ;  he 
turned  his  head  quickly  with  the  terrible  smothered  growl 
with  which  his  fits  of  fury  began ;  but  he  trembled  violently 
when  through  the  soft  dusk  he  made  out  the  forms  of  his 
mother  and  sister,  and  behind  the  two  dear  faces  another — 
the  cure  of  Montegnac. 

"  So  this  is  what  those  barbarous  wretches  held  in  store  for 
me  !  "  he  said,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Denise,  with  her  prison  experience,  was  suspicious  of  every 
least  thing  in  the  room ;  the  spy  had  hidden  himself,  mean- 
ing, no  doubt,  to  return ;  she  fled  to  her  brother,  laid  her 
tear-stained  face  against  his,  and  said  in  his  ear,  "Can  they 
hear  what  we  say  ?  " 

"I  should  rather  think  they  can,  or  they  would  not  have 
sent  you  here,"  he  answered  aloud.  "I  have  asked  as  a 
favor  this  long  while  that  I  might  not  see  any  of  my  family." 

"What  a  way  they  have  treated  him  !  "  cried  the  mother, 
turning  to  the  cure.  "  My  poor  boy  !  my  poor  boy  !  "  She 
sank  down  on  the  foot  of  the  mattress,  and  hid  her  face  in 
the  priest's  cassock.  The  cure  stood  upright  beside  her.  "I 
cannot  bear  to  see  him  bound  and  tied  up  like  that  and  put 
into  that  sack " 

"  If  Jean  will  promise  me  to  be  good  and  make  no  attempt 
on  his  life,  and  to  behave  well  while  we  are  with  him,  I  will 
ask  for  leave  to  unbind  him ;  but  I  shall  suffer  for  the  slightest 
infraction  of  his  promise." 

"  I  have  such  a  craving  to  stretch  myself  out  and  move 
freely,  dear  M.  Bonnet,"  said  the  condemned  man,  his  eyes 
filling  with  tears,  "  that  I  give  you  my  word  I  will  do  as  you 
wish." 


118  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

The  cure  went  out,  the  gaoler  came,  and  the  strait  waist- 
coat was  taken  off. 

"You  are  not  going  to  kill  me  this  evening,  are  you?" 
asked  the  turnkey. 

Jean  made  no  answer. 

"  Poor  brother  !  "  said  Denise,  bringing  out  a  basket,  which 
had  been  strictly  searched,  "there  are  one  or  two  things  here 
that  you  are  fond  of;  here,  of  course,  they  grudge  you  every 
morsel  you  eat." 

She  brought  out  fruit  gathered  as  soon  as  she  knew  that  she 
might  see  her  brother  in  prison,  and  a  cake  which  her  mother 
had  put  aside  at  once.  This  thoughtfulness  of  theirs,  which 
recalled  old  memories,  his  sister's  voice  and  movements,  the 
presence  of  his  mother  and  the  cure — all  combined  to  bring 
about  a  reaction  in  Jean.  He  burst  into  tears,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment was  completely  overcome. 

"Ah!  Denise,"  he  said,  "I  have  not  made  a  meal  these 
six  months  past ;  I  have  eaten  because  hunger  drove  me  to 
eat,  that  is  all." 

Mother  and  daughter  went  out  and  returned,  and  came  and 
went.  The  housewifely  instinct  of  seeing  to  a  man's  comfort 
put  heart  into  them,  and  at  last  they  set  supper  before  their 
poor  darling.  The  people  of  the  prison  helped  them  in  this, 
having  received  orders  to  do  all  in  their  power  compatible 
with  the  safe  custody  of  the  condemned  man.  The  des  Van- 
neaulx,  with  unkindly  kindness,  had  done  their  part  towards 
securing  the  comfort  of  the  man  in  whose  power  their  heritage 
lay.  So  Jean  by  these  means  was  to  know  a  last  gleam  of 
family  happiness — happiness  overshadowed  by  the  sombre 
gloom  of  the  prison  and  death. 

"  Was  my  appeal  rejected  ?  "  he  asked  M.  Bonnet. 

"Yes,  my  boy.  There  is  nothing  left  to  you  now  but  to 
make  an  end  worthy  of  a  Christian.  This  life  of  oi^rs  is  as 
nothing  compared  with  the  life  which  awaits  us;  you  must 
think  of  your  happiness  in  eternity.     Your  account  with  men 


THE   CURE    OF  MONTEGNAC.  119 

is  settled  by  the  forfeit  of  your  life,  but  God  requires  more,  a 
life  is  too  small  a  thing  for  Him." 

"Forfeit  my  life? Ah,  you  do  not  know  all  that  I 

must  leave  behind." 

Denise  looked  at  her  brother,  as  if  to  remind  him  that  pru- 
dence was  called  for  even  in  matters  of  religion. 

"  Let  us  say  nothing  of  that,"  he  went  on,  eating  fruit  with 
an  eagerness  that  denoted  a  fierce  and  restless  fire  within. 
"When  must  I ?" 

'^  No  /no/  nothing  of  that  before  me  !  "  cried  the  mother. 

"  I  should  be  easier  if  I  knew,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
turning  to  the  cure. 

"  The  same  as  ever!  "  exclaimed  M.  Bonnet,  and  he  bent 
to  say  in  Jean's  ear — "  If  you  make  your  peace  with  God  to- 
night, and  your  repentance  permits  me  to  give  you  absolution, 
it  shall  be  to-morrow."  Aloud  he  added,  "  We  have  already 
gained  something  by  calming  you." 

"At  these  last  words,  Jean  grew  white  to  the  lips,  his  eyes 
contracted  with  a  heavy  scowl,  his  fea*:ures  quivered  with  the 
coming  storm  of  rage. 

"  What,  am  I  calm  ?  "  he  asked  himself.  Luckily  his  eyes 
met  the  tearful  eyes  of  his  sister  Denise,  and  he  regained  the 
mastery  over  himself. 

**Ah,  well,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  cur6,  "I  could  not 
listen  to  any  one  but  you.  They  knew  well  how  to  tame  me," 
and  he  suddenly  dropped  his  head  on  his  mother's  shoulder. 

"Listen,  dear,"  his  mother  said,  weeping,  "our  dear  M. 
Bonnet  is  risking  his  own  life  by  undertaking  to  be  with  you 
on  the  way  to" — she  hesitated,  and  then  finished — "to 
eternal  life." 

And  she  lowered  Jean's  head  and  held  it  for  a  few  moments 
on  her  heart. 

"  Will  he  go  with  me?"  asked  Jean,  looking  at  the  cur6, 
who  took  it  upon  himself  to  bow  his  head.  "  Very  well,  I  will 
listen  to  him.     I  will  do  everything  that  he  requires  of  me." 


120  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"Promise  me  that  you  will,"  said  Denise,  "for  your  soul 
must  be  saved ;  that  is  what  we  are  all  thinking  of.  And 
then — would  you  have  it  said  in  Limoges  and  all  the  country 
round  that  a  Tascheron  could  not  die  like  a  man  ?  After  all, 
just  think  that  all  that  you  lose  here  you  may  find  again  in 
heaven,  where  forgiven  souls  will  meet  again." 

This  preternatural  effort  parched  the  heroic  girl's  throat. 
Like  her  mother,  she  was  silent,  but  she  had  won  the  victory. 
The  criminal,  hitherto  frantic  that  justice  had  snatched  away 
his  cup  of  bliss,  was  thrilled  with  the  sublime  doctrine  of  the 
Catholic  Church,  expressed  so  artlessly  by  his  sister.  Every 
woman,  even  a  peasant-girl  like  Denise  Tascheron,  possesses 
at  need  this  tender  tact ;  does  not  every  woman  love  to  think 
that  love  is  eternal  ?  Denise  had  touched  two  responsive 
chords.  Awakened  pride  roused  other  qualities  numbed  by 
such  utter  misery  and  stunned  by  despair.  Jean  took  his 
sister's  hand  in  his  and  kissed  it,  and  held  her  to  his  heart  in 
a  manner  profoundly  significant ;  tenderly,  but  in  a  mighty 
grasp. 

"There,"  he  said,  "  everything  must  be  given  up  !  That 
was  my  last  heart-throb,  my  last  thought — intrusted  to  you, 
Denise."  And  he  gave  her  such  a  look  as  a  man  gives  at 
some  solemn  moment,  when  he  strives  to  impress  his  whole 
soul  on  another  soul. 

A  whole  last  testament  lay  in  the  words  and  the  thoughts  ; 
the  mother  and  sister,  the  cur6  and  Jean,  understood  so  well 
that  these  were  mute  bequests  to  be  faithfully  executed  and 
loyally  demanded  that  they  turned  away  their  faces  to  hide 
their  tears  and  the  thoughts  that  might  be  read  in  their  eyes. 
Those  few  words,  spoken  in  the  death-agony  of  passion,  were 
the  farewell  to  fatherhood  and  all  that  was  sweetest  on  earth 
— the  earnest  of  a  Catholic  renunciation  of  the  things  of  earth. 
The  cur6,  awed  by  the  majesty  of  human  nature,  by  all  its 
greatness  even  in  sin,  measured  the  force  of  this  mysterious 
passion  by  the  enormity  of  the  crime,  and  raised  his  eyes  as 


THE  CURE   OF  MONTEGNAC.  121 

if  to  entreat  God's  mercy.  In  that  action  the  touching  con- 
solation— the  infinite  tenderness  of  the  Catholic  faith — was 
revealed — a  religion  that  shows  itself  so  human,  so  loving,  by 
the  hand  stretched  down  to  teach  mankind  the  laws  of  a 
higher  world,  so  awful,  so  divine,  by  the  hand  held  out  to 
guide  him  to  heaven.  It  was  Denise  who  had  just  discovered 
to  the  cure,  in  this  mysterious  manner,  the  spot  where  the 
rock  would  yield  the  streams  of  repentance.  Suddenly  Jean 
uttered  a  blood-curdling  cry,  like  some  hyena  caught  by  the 
hunters.     Memories  had  awakened. 

"No!  no!  no!"  he  cried,  falling  upon  his  knees.  "I 
want  to  live  !  Mother,  take  my  place.  Change  clothes  with 
me.  I  could  escape  !  Have  pity !  Have  pity.  Go  to  the 
King  and  tell  him " 

He  stopped  short,  a  horrible  sound  like  the  growl  of  a  wild 
beast  broke  from  him  ;  he  clutched  fiercely  at  the  cure's 
cassock. 

"  Go,"  M.  Bonnet  said  in  a  low  voice,  turning  to  the  two 
women,  who  were  quite  overcome  by  this  scene.  Jean  heard 
the  word,  and  lifted  his  head.  He  looked  up  at  his  mother 
and  sister,  and  kissed  their  feet. 

"  Let  us  say  good-bye,"  he  said.  "  Do  not  come  back  any 
more.  Leave  me  alone  with  M.  Bonnet;  and  do  not  be 
anxious  about  me  now,"  he  added,  as  he  clasped  his  mother 
and  sister  in  a  tight  embrace,  in  which  he  seemed  as  though 
he  would  fain  put  all  the  life  that  was  in  him. 

•*  How  can  any  one  go  through  all  this  and  live  ?  "  asked 
Denise  as  they  reached  the  wicket. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  they  sep- 
arated. The  Abbe  de  Rastignac  was  waiting  at  the  gate  of 
the  prison,  and  asked  the  two  women  for  news. 

"  He  will  make  his  peace  with  God,"  said  Denise.  "  If  he 
has  not  repented  already,  repentance  is  near  at  hand." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  bishop  learned  that  the  Church 
would  triumph  in  this  matter,  and  that  the  condemned  man 


122  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

would  go  to  his  execution  with  the  most  edifying  religious 
sentiments.  The  public  prosecutor  was  with  his  lordship, 
who  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  cur6.  It  was  midnight  before 
M.  Bonnet  came.  The  Abbe  Gabriel,  who  had  been  going 
to  and  fro  between  the  palace  and  the  prison,  considered  that 
the  bishop's  carriage  ought  to  be  sent  for  him,  for  the  poor 
man  was  so  exhausted  that  he  could  scarcely  stand.  The 
thought  of  to-morrow's  horrible  journey,  the  anguish  of  soul 
which  he  had  witnessed,  the  full  and  entire  repentance  of  this 
member  of  his  flock,  who  broke  down  completely  at  last 
when  the  great  forecast  of  eternity  was  put  before  him — all 
these  things  had  combined  to  wear  out  M.  Bonnet's  strength, 
for  with  his  nervous  temperament  and  electric  swiftness  of 
apprehension,  he  was  quick  to  feel  the  sorrows  of  others  as  if 
they  were  his  own. 

Souls  like  this  beautiful  soul  are  so  open  to  receive  the  im- 
pressions, the  sorrows,  passions,  and  sufferings  of  those  towards 
whom  they  are  drawn,  that  they  feel  the  pain  as  if  it  were  in 
very  truth  their  own,  and  this  in  a  manner  which  is  torture  ; 
for  their  clearer  eyes  can  measure  the  whole  extent  of  the  mis- 
fortune in  a  way  impossible  to  those  blinded  by  the  egoism  of 
love  or  paroxysms  of  grief.  In  this  respect  such  a  confessor 
as  M.  Bonnet  is  an  artist  who  feels,  instead  of  an  artist  who 
judges. 

In  the  drawing-room  at  the  palace,  where  the  two  vicars- 
general,  the  public  prosecutor,  and  M.  de  Granville,  and  the 
Abbe  de  Rastignac  were  waiting,  it  dawned  upon  M.  Bonnet 
that  he  was  expected  to  bring  news. 

"Monsieur  le  Cure,"  the  bishop  began,  "have  you  ob- 
tained any  confessions  with  which  you  may  in  confidence 
enlighten  justice  without  failing  in  your  duty  ? ' ' 

"  Before  I  gave  absolution  to  that  poor  lost  child,  my  lord, 
I  was  not  content  that  his  repentance  should  be  as  full  and 
entire  as  the  Church  could  require ;  I  still  further  insisted  on 
the  restitution  of  the  money." 


THE  CURE   OF  MONTEGNAC.  123 

"  I  came  here  to  the  palace  about  that  restitution,"  said  the 
public  prosecutor.  "  Some  light  will  be  thrown  on  obscure 
points  in  the  case  by  the  way  in  which  it  is  made.  He  cer- 
tainly has  accomplices " 

"  With  the  interests  of  man's  justice  I  have  no  concern," 
the  cure  said.  "  I  do  not  know  how  or  where  the  restitution 
will  be  made,  but  made  it  will  be.  When  my  lord  bishop 
summoned  me  here  to  one  of  my  own  parishioners,  he  re- 
placed me  in  the  exact  conditions  which  give  a  cure  in  his 
own  parish  the  rights  which  a  bishop  exercises  in  his  diocese 
— ecclesiastical  obedience  and  discipline  apart." 

''Quite  right,"  said  the  bishop.  "But  the  point  is  to 
obtain  a  voluntary  confession  before  justice  from  the  con- 
demned man." 

"  My  mission  was  simply  to  bring  a  soul  to  God,"  returned 
M.  Bonnet. 

M.  de  Grancour  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly,  and  the 
Abbe  Dutheil  nodded  approval. 

"  Tascheron,  no  doubt,  wants  to  screen  some  one  whom 
a  restitution  would  identify,"  said  the  public  prosecutor. 

"  Monsieur,"  retorted  the  cure,  "I  know  absolutely  noth- 
ing which  might  either  confirm  or  contradict  your  conjecture; 
and,  moreover,  the  secrets  of  the  confessional  are  inviolable." 

**  So  the  restitution  will  be  made?  "  asked  the  man  of  law. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,"  answered  the  man  of  God. 

**  That  is  enough  for  me,"  said  the  public  prosecutor.  He 
relied  upon  the  cleverness  of  the  police  to  find  and  follow  up 
any  clue,  as  if  passion  and  personal  interest  were  not  keener- 
witted  than  any  detective. 

Two  days  later,  on  a  market-day,  Jean-Francois  Tascheron 
went  to  his  death  in  a  manner  which  left  all  pious  and  politic 
souls  nothing  to  desire.  His  humility  and  piety  were  exem- 
plary ;  he  kissed  with  fervor  the  crucifix  which  M.  Bonnet 
held  out  to    him  with    trembling   hands.     The   unfortunate 


124  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

man  was  closely  scanned ;  all  eyes  were  on  the  watch  to 
see  the  direction  his  glances  might  take  ;  would  he  look  up 
at  one  of  the  houses,  or  gaze  on  some  face  in  the  crowd  ? 
His  discretion  was  complete  and  inviolable.  He  met  his 
death  like  a  Christian,  penitent  and  forgiven. 

The  poor  cur6  of  Montegnac  was  taken  away  unconscious 
from  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  though  he  had  not  so  much  as 
set  eyes  on  the  fatal  machine. 

The  next  day  at  nightfall,  three  leagues  away  from  Limoges, 
out  on  the  high-road,  and  in  a  lonely  spot,  Denise  Tascheron 
suddenly  stopped.  Exhausted  though  she  was  with  physical 
weariness  and  sorrow,  she  begged  her  father  to  allow  her  to 
go  back  to  Limoges  with  Louis-Marie  Tascheron,  one  of  her 
brothers. 

*'  What  more  do  you  want  to  do  in  that  place? "  her  father 
asked  sharply,  raising  his  eyebrows,  and  frowning. 

"  We  have  not  only  to  pay  the  lawyer,  father,"  she  said  in 
his  ear ;  "  there  is  something  else.  The  money  that  he  hid 
must  be  given  back." 

"That  is  only  right,"  said  the  rigorously  honest  man, 
fumbling  in  a  leather  purse  which  he  carried  about  him. 

**  No,"  Denise  said  swiftly,  "^he  is  your  son  no  longer;  and 
those  who  blessed,  not  those  who  cursed  him,  ought  to  pay  the 
lawyer's  fees." 

**  We  will  wait  for  you  at  Havre?  "  her  father  said. 

Denise  and  her  brother  crept  into  the  town  again  before  it 
was  day.  Though  the  police  learned  later  on  that  two  of  the 
Tascherons  had  come  back,  they  never  could  discover  their 
lodging.  It  was  near  four  o'clock  when  Denise  and  her 
brother  went  to  the  higher  end  of  the  town,  stealing  along 
close  to  the  walls.  The  poor  girl  dared  not  look  up,  lest  the 
eyes  which  should  meet  hers  had  seen  her  brother's  head  fall. 
First  of  all,  she  had  sought  out  M.  Bonnet,  and  he,  unwell 
though  he  was,  had  consented  to  act  as  Denise' s  father  and 


THE   CURE    OF  MONTEGNAC.  125 

guardian  for  the  time  being.  With  him  they  went  to  the 
barrister,  who  lived  in  the  Rue  de  la  Comedie. 

"  Good-day,  poor  children,"  the  lawyer  began,  with  a  bow 
to  M.  Bonnet.  "  How  can  I  be  of  use  to  you?  Perhaps  you 
want  me  to  make  application  for  your  brother's  body." 

*'No,  sir,"  said  Denise,  her  tears  flowing  at  the  thought, 
which  had  not  occurred  to  her ;  "I  have  come  to  pay  our 
debt  to  you,  in  so  far  as  money  can  repay  an  eternal  debt." 

"Sit  down  a  moment,"  said  the  lawyer,  seeing  that  Denise 
and  the  cure  were  both  standing.  Denise  turned  away  to  draw 
from  her  stays  two  notes  of  five  hundred  francs,  pinned  to  her 
shift.  Then  she  sat  down  and  handed  over  the  bills  to  her 
brother's  counsel.  The  cure  looked  at  the  lawyer  with  a  light 
in  his  eyes,  which  soon  filled  with  tears. 

"Keep  it,"  the  barrister  said  ;  "keep  the  money  yourself, 
my  poor  girl.  Rich  people  do  not  pay  for  a  lost  cause  in  this 
generous  way. 

"  I  cannot  do  as  you  ask,  sir,  it  is  impossible,"  said  Denise. 

"  Then  the  money  does  not  come  from  you?"  the  barrister 
asked  quickly. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  replied,  with  a  questioning  glance  at 
M.  Bonnet — would  God  be  angry  with  her  for  that  lie  ? 

The  cure  kept  his  eyes  lowered. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  barrister,  and,  keeping  one  of  the 
notes  in  his  hand,  he  gave  the  other  to  the  cure,  "  then  I  will 
divide  it  with  the  poor.  And  now,  Denise,  this  is  certainly 
mine  " — he  held  out  the  note  as  he  spoke — "  will  you  give  me 
your  velvet  ribbon  and  gold  cross  in  exchange  for  it  ?  I  will 
hang  the  cross  above  my  chimney-piece  in  memory  of  the 
purest  and  kindest  girl's  heart  which  I  shall  every  meet  with, 
I  doubt  not,  in  my  career." 

"There  is  no  need  to  buy  it,"  cried  Denise,  "I  will  give 
it  you,"  and  she  took  off  her  gilt  cross  and  handed  it  to  the 
lawyer. 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  said  the  cure,  "  I  accept  the  five  hundred 


126  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

francs  to  pay  the  expenses  of  exhuming  and  removing  the 
poor  boy's  body  to  the  churchyard  at  Montegnac.  Doubt- 
less God  has  forgiven  him  ;  Jean  will  rise  again  with  all  my 
flock  at  the  Last  Day,  when  the  righteous  as  well  as  the  penitent 
sinner  will  be  summoned  to  sit  at  the  Father's  right  hand." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  the  barrister.  He  took  Denise's  hand  and 
drew  her  towards  him  to  put  a  kiss  on  her  forehead,  a  move- 
ment made  with  another  end  in  view. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  "  nobody  at  Montegnac  has  such  a 
thing  as  a  five-hundred  franc-note ;  they  are  rather  scarce  in 
Limoges;  people  don't  take  them  here  without  asking  some- 
thing for  changing  them.  So  this  money  has  been  given  to 
you  by  somebody ;  you  are  not  going  to  tell  me  who  it  was, 
and  I  do  not  ask  you,  but  listen  to  this  ;  if  you  have  anything 
left  to  do  here  which  has  any  reference  to  your  poor  brother, 
mind  how  you  set  about  it.  M.  Bonnet  and  you  and  your 
brother  will  all  three  of  you  be  watched  by  spies.  People 
know  that  your  family  have  gone  away.  If  anybody  recog- 
nizes you  here,  you  will  be  surrounded  before  you  suspect  it." 

"  Alas  !  "  she  said,  "  I  have  nothing  left  to  do  here." 

"  She  is  cautious,"  said  the  lawyer  to  himself,  as  he  went 
to  the  door  with  her.  "She  has  been  warned,  so  let  her 
extricate  herself." 

It  was  late  September,  but  the  days  were  as  hot  as  in  the 
summer.  The  bishop  was  giving  a  dinner-party.  The  local 
authorities,  the  public  prosecutor,  and  the  first  avocat  general 
were  among  the  guests.  Discussions  were  started,  which  grew 
lively  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  and  it  was  very  late  before 
they  broke  up.  Whist  and  backgammon,  that  game  beloved 
of  bishops,  were  the  order  of  the  day.  It  happened  that 
about  eleven  o'clock  the  public  prosecutor  stepped  out  upon 
the  upper  terrace,  and  from  the  corner  where  he  stood  saw  a 
light  on  the  island,  which  the  Abbe  Gabriel  and  the  bishop 
had  already  fixed  upon  as  the  central  spot  and  clue  to  the 
inexplicable  tangle  about  Tascheron's  crime — on  Veronique's 


THE   CURE    OF  M0NT£GNAC.  127 

Isle  of  France  in  fact.  There  was  no  apparent  reason  why 
anybody  should  kindle  a  fire  in  the  middle  of  the  Vienne  at 
that  time  of  night — then,  all  at  once,  the  idea  which  had 
struck  the  bishop  and  his  secretary  flashed  upon  the  public 
prosecutor's  brain,  with  a  light  as  sudden  as  that  of  the  fire 
which  shot  up  out  of  the  distant  darkness. 

'*  What  a  set  of  great  fools  we  have  all  been  !  "  cried  he, 
"but  we  have  the  accomplices  now." 

He  went  up  to  the  drawing-room  again,  found  out  M.  de 
Granville,  and  said  a  word  or  two  in  his  ear ;  then  both  of 
them  vanished.  But  the  Abbe  de  Rastignac,  courteously 
attentive,  watched  them  go  out,  saw  that  they  went  towards 
the  terrace,  and  noticed  too  that  fire  on  the  shore  of  the  island. 

"  It  is  all  over  with  her,"  thought  he. 

The  messengers  of  justice  arrived  on  the  spot — too  late. 
Denise  and  Louis-Marie  (whom  his  brother  Jean  had  taught 
to  dive)  were  there,  it  is  true,  on  the  bank  of  the  Vienne  at  a 
place  pointed  out  by  Jean  ;  but  Louis- Marie  had  already  dived 
four  times,  and  each  time  had  brought  up  with  him  twenty 
thousand  francs  in  gold.  The  first  installment  was  secured  in 
a  bandana  with  the  four  corners  tied  up.  As  soon  as  the 
water  had  been  wrung  from  the  handkerchief,  it  was  thrown 
on  a  great  fire  of  dry  sticks,  kindled  beforehand.  A  shawl 
contained  the  second,  and  the  third  was  secured  in  a  lawn 
handkerchief.  Just  as  Denise  was  about  to  fling  the  fourth 
wrapper  into  the  fire  the  police  came  up,  accompanied  by  a 
commissary,  and  pounced  upon  a  very  important  clue,  as  they 
thought,  which  Denise  suffered  them  to  seize  without  the 
slightest  emotion.  It  was  a  man's  pocket-handkerchief,  which 
still  retained  some  stains  of  blood  in  spite  of  its  long  immer- 
sion. Questioned  forthwith  as  to  her  proceedings,  Denise 
said  that  she  had  brought  the  stolen  money  out  of  the  river,  as 
her  brother  bade  her.  To  the  commissary,  inquiring  why  she 
had  burned  the  wrappings,  she  answered  that  she  was  follow- 
ing out  her  brother's  instructions.     Asked  what  the  wrappings 


128  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

were,  she  replied  boldly  and  with  perfect  truth,  "  A  bandana 
handkerchief,  a  lawn  handkerchief,  and  a  shawl." 

The  handkerchief  which  had  just  been  seized  belonged  to 
her  brother. 

This  fishing  expedition  and  the  circumstances  accompanying 
it  made  plenty  of  talk  in  Limoges.  The  shawl  in  particular 
confirmed  the  belief  that  there  was  a  love  affair  at  the  bottom 
of  Tascheron's  crime. 

"  He  is  dead,  but  he  shields  her  still,"  commented  one  lady, 
when  she  heard  these  final  revelations,  so  cleverly  rendered 
useless. 

'*  Perhaps  there  is  some  married  man  in  Limoges  who  will 
find  that  he  is  a  bandana  short,  but  he  will  perforce  hold  his 
tongue,"  said  the  public  prosecutor,  smilingly. 

"Little  mistakes  in  one's  wardrobe  have  come  to  be  so 
compromising,  that  I  shall  set  about  verifying  mine  this  very 
evening,"  said  old  Mme.  Perret,  smiling  too. 

"Whose  are  the  dainty  little  feet  that  left  the  footmarks, 
so  carefully  erased  ?  "  asked  M.  de  Granville. 

"Pshaw!  perhaps  they  belong  to  some  ugly  woman,"  re- 
turned the  avocat  general. 

"  She  has  paid  dear  for  her  slip,"  remarked  the  Abb6  de 
Grancour. 

"  Do  you  know  what  all  this  business  goes  to  prove?  "  put 
in  the  avocat  general.  "  It  just  shows  how  much  women  have 
lost  through  the  Revolution,  which  obliterated  social  distinc- 
tions. Such  a  passion  is  only  to  be  met  with  nowadays  in  a 
man  who  knows  that  there  is  an  enormous  distance  between 
him  and  the  woman  he  loves." 

"You  credit  love  with  many  vanities,"  returned  the  Abb6 
Dutheil. 

"What  does  Mme.  Graslin  think?  "  asked  the  prefect. 

"  What  would  you  have  her  think  ?  She  was  confined,  as  she 
told  me  she  would  be,  on  the  day  of  the  execution,  and  has  seen 
nobody  since;  she  is  dangerously  ill,"  said  M.  de  Granville. 


THE   CURE   OF  MONTEGNAC.  129 

Meanwhile,  in  another  room  in  Limoges,  an  almost  comic 
scene  was  taking  place.  The  des  Vanneaulx's  friends  were 
congratulating  them  upon  the  restitution  of  their  inheritance. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mme.  des  Vanneaulx,  "they  ought  to 
have  let  him  off,  poor  man.  It  was  love,  and  not  mercenary 
motives,  that  brought  him  to  it ;  he  was  neither  vicious  nor 
wicked." 

"  He  behaved  like  a  thorough  gentleman,"  said  the  Sieur 
des  Vanneaulx.  "  If  I  knew  where  his  family  was,  I  would  do 
something  for  them  ;  they  are  good  people,  those  Tascherons." 

When  Mme.  Graslin  was  well  enough  to  rise,  towards  the 
end  of  the  year  1829,  after  the  long  illness  which  followed 
her  confinement,  and  obliged  her  to  keep  her  bed  in  absolute 
solitude  and  quiet,  she  heard  her  husband  speak  of  a  rather 
considerable  piece  of  business  which  he  wanted  to  conclude. 
The  Navarreins  family  thought  of  selling  the  forest  of  Mon- 
tegnac  and  the  waste  lands  which  they  owned  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, Graslin  had  not  yet  put  into  execution  a  clause  in  his 
wife's  marriage  settlement,  which  required  that  her  dowry 
should  be  invested  in  land ;  he  had  preferred  to  put  her  money 
out  at  interest  through  the  bank,  and  already  had  doubled 
her  capital.  On  this,  Veronique  seemed  to  recollect  the  name 
of  Montegnac,  and  begged  her  husband  to  carry  out  the  con- 
tract by  purchasing  the  estate  for  her. 

M.  Graslin  wished  very  much  to  see  M.  Bonnet,  to  ask  for 
information  concerning  the  forest  and  lands  which  the  Due  de 
Navarreins  thought  of  selling.  The  Due  de  Navarreins,  be  it 
said,  foresaw  the  hideous  struggle  which  the  Prince  de  Polignac 
had  made  inevitable  between  the  Liberals  and  the  Bourbon 
dynasty ;  and  augured  the  worst,  for  which  reasons  he  was 
one  of  the  boldest  opponents  of  the  Coup  d'Etat.  The  Duke 
had  sent  his  man  of  business  to  Limoges  with  instructions  to 
sell,  if  a  bidder  could  be  found  for  so  large  a  sum  of  money, 
for  his  grace  recollected  the  Revolution  of  1 789  too  well  not 
9 


130  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON: 

to  profit  by  the  lessons  then  taught  to  the  aristocracy.  It  was 
this  man  of  business  who,  for  more  than  a  month,  had  been 
at  close  quarters  with  Graslin,  the  shrewdest  old  fox  in  Lim- 
ousin, and  the  only  man  whom  common  report  singled  out  as 
being  able  to  pay  down  the  price  of  so  large  an  estate  on  the 
spot. 

At  a  word  sent  by  the  Abb6  Dutheil,  M.  Bonnet  hastened 
to  Limoges  and  the  Hotel  Graslin.  V6ronique  would  have 
prayed  the  cure  to  dine  with  her;  but  the  banker  only  allowed 
M.  Bonnet  to  go  up  to  his  wife's  room  after  he  had  kept  him 
a  full  hour  in  his  private  office,  and  obtained  information 
which  satisfied  him  so  well,  that  he  concluded  his  purchase 
out  of  hand,  and  the  forest  and  domain  of  Montegnac  became 
his  (Graslin's)  for  five  hundred  thousand  francs.  He  acqui- 
esced in  his  wife's  wish,  stipulating  that  this  purchase  and  any 
outlay  relating  thereto  should  be  held  to  accomplish  the  clause 
in  her  marriage  contract  as  to  her  fortune.  Graslin  did  this 
the  more  willingly  because  the  piece  of  honesty  now  cost  him 
nothing. 

At  the  time  of  Graslin's  purchase  the  estate  consisted  of  the 
forest  of  Montegnac,  some  thirty  thousand  acres  in  extent, 
but  too  inaccessible  to  bring  in  any  money,  the  ruined  castle, 
the  gardens,  and  some  five  thousand  acres  in  the  uncultivated 
plains  under  Montegnac.  Graslin  made  several  more  pur- 
chases at  once,  so  as  to  have  the  whole  of  the  first  peak  of  the 
Corr^zien  range  in  his  hands,  for  there  the  vast  forest  of  Mon- 
tegnac came  to  an  end.  Since  the  taxes  had  been  levied  upon 
it,  the  Due  de  Navarreins  had  not  drawn  fifteen  thousand 
francs  a  year  from  the  manor,  formerly  one  of  the  richest  ten- 
ures in  the  kingdom.  The  lands  had  escaped  sale  when  put 
up  under  the  Convention,  partly  because  of  their  barrenness, 
partly  because  it  was  a  recognized  fact  that  nothing  could  be 
made  of  them. 

When  the  cur6  came  face  to  face  with  the  woman  of  whom 
he  had  heard,  a  woman  whose  cleverness  and  piety  were  well 


THE   CURE    OF  MONTEGNAC.  131 

known,  he  started  in  spite  of  himself.  At  this  time  Veronique 
had  entered  upon  the  third  period  of  her  life,  a  period  in 
which  she  was  to  grow  greater  by  the  exercise  of  the  loftiest 
virtues,  and  become  a  totally  different  woman.  To  the 
Raphael's  Madonna,  hidden  beneath  the  veil  of  smallpox 
scars,  a  beautiful,  noble,  and  impassioned  woman  had  succeeded, 
a  woman  afterwards  laid  low  by  inward  sorrows,  from  which 
a  saint  emerged.  Her  complexion  had  taken  the  sallow  tint 
seen  in  the  austere  faces  of  abbesses  of  ascetic  life.  A 
yellowish  hue  had  overspread  the  temples,  grown  less  imperious 
now.  The  lips  were  paler,  the  red  of  the  opening  pomegranate 
flower  had  changed  into  the  paler  crimson  of  the  Bengal  rose. 
Between  the  nose  and  the  corners  of  the  eyes  sorrow  had  worn 
two  pearly  channels,  down  which  many  tears  had  coursed  in 
secret ;  much  weeping  had  worn  away  the  traces  of  smallpox. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  fix  your  eyes  on  the  spot  where  a  net- 
work of  tiny  blue  veins  stood  out  swollen  and  distended  with 
the  full  pulses  that  throbbed  there,  as  if  they  fed  the  source 
of  many  tears.  The  faint  brownish  tinge  about  the  eyes  alone 
remained,  but  there  were  dark  circles  under  them  now,  and 
wrinkles  in  the  eyelids  which  told  of  terrible  suffering.  The 
lines  in  the  hollow  cheeks  bore  record  of  solemn  thoughts. 
The  chin,  too,  had  shrunk,  it  had  lost  its  youthful  fulness  of 
outline,  and  this  scarcely  to  the  advantage  of  a  face  which 
wore  an  expression  of  pitiless  austerity,  confined,  however, 
solely  to  Veronique  herself.  At  twenty-nine  years  of  age  her 
hair,  one  of  her  greatest  beauties,  had  faded  and  grown  scanty ; 
she  had  been  obliged  to  pull  out  a  large  quantity  of  white 
hair,  bleached  during  her  confinement.  Her  thinness  was 
shocking  to  see.  In  spite  of  the  doctor's  orders,  she  had  per- 
sisted in  nursing  the  child  herself;  and  the  doctor  was  not 
disposed  to  let  people  forget  this  when  all  his  evil  prognosti- 
cations were  so  thoroughly  fulfilled. 

"  See  what  a  difference  a  single  confinement  has  made  in  a 
woman  !  "  said  he.     "  And  she  worships  that  child  of  hers; 


132  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

but  I  have  always  noticed  that  the  more  a  child  costs  the 
mother,  the  dearer  it  is." 

All  that  remained  of  youth  in  Veronique's  face  lay  in  her 
eyes,  wan  though  they  were.  An  untamed  fire  flashed  from 
the  dark  blue  iris ;  all  the  life  that  had  deserted  the  cold  im- 
passive mask  of  a  face,  expressionless  now  save  for  the  chari- 
table look  which  it  wore  when  her  poorer  neighbors  were 
spoken  of,  seemed  to  have  taken  refuge  there.  So  the  curb's 
first  dismay  and  surprise  abated  somewhat  as  he  went  on  to 
explain  to  her  how  much  good  a  resident  landowner  might  effect 
in  Montegnac,  and  for  a  moment  Veronique's  face  grew  beauti- 
ful, lighted  up  by  this  unexpected  hope  which  began  to  shine 
in  upon  her. 

"  I  will  go  there,"  she  said.  "  It  shall  be  my  property.  I 
will  ask  M.  Graslin  to  put  some  funds  at  my  disposal,  and  I 
will  enter  into  your  charitable  work  with  all  my  might. 
Montegnac  shall  be  cultivated ;  we  will  find  water  somewhere 
to  irrigate  the  waste  land  in  the  plain.  You  are  striking  the 
rock,  like  Moses,  and  tears  will  flow  from  it !  " 

The  cur6  of  Montegnac  spoke  of  Mme.  Graslin  as  a  saint 
when  his  friends  in  Limoges  asked  him  about  her. 

The  very  day  after  the  purchase  was  completed,  Graslin 
sent  an  architect  to  Montegnac.  He  was  determined  to  restore 
the  castle,  the  gardens,  terraces,  and  park,  to  reclaim  the 
forest  by  a  plantation,  putting  an  ostentatious  activity  into  all 
that  he  did. 

Two  years  later  a  great  misfortune  befell  Mme.  Graslin. 
Her  husband,  in  spite  of  his  prudence,  was  involved  in  the 
commercial  and  financial  disasters  of  1830.  The  thought  of 
bankruptcy,  or  of  losing  three  millions,  the  gains  of  a  life- 
time of  toil,  were  both  intolerable  to  him.  The  worry  and 
anxiety  aggravated  the  inflammatory  disease,  always  lurking 
in  his  system,  the  result  of  impure  blood.  He  was  compelled 
to  take  to  his  bed.  In  Veronique  a  friendly  feeling  towards 
Graslin  had  developed  during  her  pregnancy,  and  dealt  a  fatal 


THE   CURE    OF  MONTEGNAC.  133 

blow  to  the  hopes  of  her  admirer,  M.  de  Granville.  By  care- 
ful nursing  she  tried  to  save  her  husband's  life,  but  only  suc- 
ceeded in  prolonging  a  suffering  existence  for  a  few  months. 
This  respite,  however,  was  very  useful  to  Grossetgte,  who, 
foreseeing  the  end,  consulted  with  his  old  comrade,  and  made 
all  the  necessary  arrangements  for  a  prompt  realization. 

In  April,  1831,  Monsieur  Graslin  died,  and  his  widow's  de- 
spairing grief  only  sobered  down  into  Christian  resignation. 
From  the  first  Veronique  had  wished  to  give  up  her  whole 
fortune  to  her  husband's  creditors ;  but  M.  Graslin's  estate 
proved  to  be  more  than  sufficient.  It  was  Grossetgte  who 
wound  up  his  affairs,  and  two  months  after  the  settlement 
Mme.  Graslin  found  herself  the  mistress  of  the  domains  of 
Montegnac  and  of  six  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  francs,  all 
her  own;  and  no  blot  rested  on  her  son's  name.  No  one 
had  lost  anything  through  Graslin — not  even  his  wife;  and 
Francis  Graslin  had  about  a  hundred  thousand  francs. 

Then  M.  de  Granville,  who  had  reason  to  know  Veronique's 
nature  and  loftiness  of  soul,  came  forward  as  a  suitor ;  but,  to 
the  amazement  of  all  Limoges,  Mme.  Graslin  refused  the 
newly-appointed  public  prosecutor,  on  the  ground  that  second 
marriages  were  discountenanced  by  the  Church.  Grosset§te, 
a  man  of  unerring  forecast  and  sound  sense,  advised  Vero- 
nique to  invest  the  rest  of  M.  Graslin's  fortune  and  her  own 
in  the  Funds,  and  effected  this  himself  for  her  at  once,  in  the 
month  of  July,  when  the  three  per  cents,  stood  at  fifty.  So 
Francis  had  an  income  of  six  thousand  livres,  and  his  mother 
about  forty  thousand.  Vdronique's  was  still  the  greatest  for- 
tune in  the  department. 

All  was  settled  at  last,  and  Mme.  Graslin  gave  out  that  she 
meant  to  leave  Limoges  to  live  nearer  to  M.  Bonnet.  Again 
she  sent  for  the  curd,  to  consult  him  about  his  work  at  Mon- 
tegnac, in  which  she  was  determined  to  share;  but  he  gener- 
ously tried  to  dissuade  her,  and  to  make  it  clear  to  her  that 
her  place  was  in  society. 


134  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"  I  have  sprung  from  the  people,  and  I  mean  to  return  to 
them,"  said  she. 

The  cure's  great  love  for  his  own  village  resisted  the  more 
feebly  when  he  learned  that  Mme.  Graslin  had  arranged  to 
make  over  her  house  in  Limoges  to  M.  GrossetSte.  Certain 
sums  were  due  to  the  banker,  and  he  took  the  house  at  its  full 
value  in  settlement. 

Mme.  Graslin  finally  left  Limoges  towards  the  end  of  Au- 
gust, 1831.  A  troop  of  friends  gathered  about  her,  and  went 
with  her  as  far  as  the  outskirts  of  the  town  ;  some  of  them 
went  the  whole  first  stage  of  the  journey.  Veronique  traveled 
in  a  caleche  with  her  mother;  the  Abbe  Dutheil,  recently 
appointed  to  a  bishopric,  sat  opposite  them  with  old  M.  Gros- 
setSte.  As  they  went  through  the  Place  d'Aine,  Veronique's 
emotion  was  almost  uncontrollable ;  her  face  contracted  ;  every 
muscle  quivered  with  the  pain  ;  she  snatched  up  her  child, 
and  held  him  tightly  to  her  in  a  convulsive  grasp,  while  La 
Sauviat  tried  to  cover  her  emotion  by  following  her  example — 
it  seemed  that  La  Sauviat  was  not  unprepared  for  something 
of  this  kind. 

Chance  so  ordered  it  that  Mme.  Graslin  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  house  where  her  father  had  lived  ;  she  clutched  Mme. 
Sauviat's  hand,  great  tears  filled  her  eyes  and  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  When  Limoges  was  fairly  left  behind,  she  turned 
and  took  a  last  farewell  glance ;  and  all  her  friends  noticed  a 
certain  look  of  happiness  in  her  face.  When  the  public 
prosecutor,  the  young  man  of  five-and-twenty  whom  she  had 
declined  to  marry,  came  up  and  kissed  her  hand  with  lively 
expressions  of  regret,  the  newly-made  bishop  noticed  some- 
thing strange  in  Veronique's  eyes :  the  dark  pupils  dilated 
till  the  blue  became  a  thin  ring  about  them.  It  was 
unmistakable  that  some  violent  revulsion  took  place  within 
her. 

"  Now  I  shall  never  see  him  again,"  she  said  in  her 
mother's  ear,  but  there  was  not  the  slightest  trace  of  feeling 


THE   CURE   OF  MONTEGNAC.  135 

in  the  impassive  old  face  as  Mme.  Sauviat  received  that 
confidence. 

Grossetete,  the  shrewd  old  banker,  sitting  opposite,  watch- 
ing the  women  with  keen  eyes,  had  not  discovered  that  Veron- 
ique  hated  this  man,  whom  for  that  matter  she  received  as  a 
visitor.  In  things  of  this  kind  a  churchman  is  far  clearer- 
sighted  than  other  men,  and  the  bishop  surprised  Veronique 
by  a  glance  that  revealed  an  ecclesiastic's  perspicacity. 

"You  have  no  regret  in  leaving  Limoges?"  the  bishop 
said  to  Mme.  Graslin. 

"You  are  leaving  the  town,"  she  replied.  "And  M. 
Grossetete  scarcely  ever  comes  among  us  now,"  she  added, 
with  a  smile  for  her  old  friend  as  he  said  good-bye. 

The  bishop  went  the  whole  of  the  way  to  Montegnac  with 
Veronique. 

"I  ought  to  have  made  this  journey  in  mourning,"  she 
said  in  her  mother's  ear  as  they  walked  up  the  hill  near  Saint- 
Leonard. 

The  old  woman  turned  her  crabbed,  wrinkled  face,  and 
laid  her  finger  on  her  lips ;  then  she  pointed  to  the  bishop, 
who  was  giving  the  child  a  terrible  scrutiny.  Her  mother's 
gesture  first,  and  yet  more  the  significant  expression  in  the 
bishop's  eyes,  made  Mme.  Graslin  shudder.  The  light  died 
out  of  her  face  as  she  looked  out  across  the  wide  gray  stretch 
of  plain  before  Montegnac,  and  melancholy  overcame  her. 
All  at  once  she  saw  the  cur6  coming  to  meet  her,  and  made 
him  take  a  seat  in  the  carriage. 

"This  is  your  domain,"  said  M.  Bonnet,  indicating  the 
level  waste. 


IV 

MADAME  GRASLIN  AT  MONTEGNAC. 

In  a  few  moments  the  township  of  Mont6gnac  came  in 
sight ;  the  hillside  and  the  conspicuous  new  buildings  upon  it 
shone  golden  in  the  light  of  the  sunset ;  it  was  a  lovely  land- 
scape like  an  oasis  in  the  desert,  with  a  picturesque  charm  of 
its  own,  due  to  the  contrast  with  its  setting.  Mme.  Graslin's 
eyes  began  to  fill  with  tears.  The  cur6  pointed  out  a  broad 
white  track  like  a  scar  on  the  hillside. 

"  That  is  what  my  parishioners  have  done  to  show  their 
gratitude  to  their  lady  of  the  manor,"  he  said.  "We  can 
drive  the  whole  way  to  the  chateau.  The  road  is  finished 
now,  and  has  not  cost  you  a  sou ;  we  shall  put  in  a  row  of 
trees  beside  it  in  two  months'  time.  My  lord  bishop  can 
imagine  how  much  toil,  thought,  and  devotion  went  to  the 
making  of  such  a  change." 

"And  they  have  done  this  themselves  !  "  said  the  bishop. 

"  They  would  take  nothing  in  return,  my  lord.  The 
poorest  lent  a  hand,  for  they  all  knew  that  one  who  would  be 
like  a  mother  to  them  was  coming  to  live  among  us." 

There  was  a  crowd  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  all  the  village  was 
there.  Guns  were  fired  off,  and  mortars  exploded,  and  then 
the  two  prettiest  girls  of  Montegnac,  in  white  dresses,  came  to 
offer  flowers  and  fruit  to  Mme.  Graslin. 

"  That  I  should  be  welcomed  here  like  this  !  "  she  cried, 
clutching  M.  Bonnet's  hand  as  if  she  felt  that  she  was  falling 
over  a  precipice. 

The   crowd  went  up   as   far   as   the   great   iron   gateway, 

whence  Mme.   Graslin  could  see  her  chateau.     At  first  sight 

the  splendor  of  her  dwelling  was  a  shock  to  her.     Stone  for 

building   is  scarce   in  this  district,  for  the  native  granite  is 

(136) 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONTJ^GNAC.  137 

hard  and  exceedingly  difficult  to  work;  so  Graslin's  architect 
had  used  brick  for  the  main  body  of  the  great  building,  there 
being  plenty  of  brick  earth  in  the  forest  of  Montegnac,  and 
wood  for  the  felling.  All  the  woodwork  and  stone,  in  fact, 
came  also  from  the  forest  and  the  quarries  in  it.  But  for 
these  economies,  Graslin  must  have  been  put  to  a  ruinoiis 
expense  ;  but  as  it  was,  the  principal  outlay  was  for  wages, 
carriage,  and  salaries,  and  the  money  circulating  in  the 
township  had  put  new  life  into  it. 

At  a  first  glance  the  chateau  stood  up  a  huge  red  mass, 
scored  with  dark  lines  of  mortar,  and  outlined  with  gray,  for 
the  facings  and  quoins  and  the  string  courses  along  each  story 
were  of  granite,  each  block  being  cut  in  facets  diamond 
fashion.  The  surface  of  the  brick  walls  round  the  courtyard 
(a  sloping  oval  like  the  courtyard  of  Versailles)  was  broken 
by  slabs  of  granite  surrounded  by  bosses,  and  set  at  equal  dis- 
tances. Shrubs  had  been  planted  under  the  walls,  with  a  view 
to  obtaining  the  contrasts  of  their  various  foliage.  Two  hand- 
some iron  gateways  gave  access  on  the  one  hand  to  the  terrace 
which  overlooked  Montegnac,  and  on  the  other  to  a  farm  and 
outbuildings.  The  great  gateway  at  the  summit  of  the  new 
road,  which  had  just  been  finished,  had  a  neat  lodge  on 
either  side,  built  in  the  style  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

The  facade  of  the  chateau  fronted  the  courtyard  and  faced 
the  west.  It  consisted  of  three  towers,  the  central  tower 
being  connected  with  the  one  on  either  side  of  it  by  two 
wings.  The  back  of  the  house  was  precisely  similar,  and 
looked  over  the  gardens  towards  the  east.  There  was  but  one 
window  in  each  tower  on  the  side  of  the  courtyard  and  gar- 
dens, each  wing  having  three.  The  centre  tower  was  built 
something  after  the  fashion  of  a  campanile,  the  corner-stones 
were  vermiculated,  and  here  some  delicate  sculptured  work 
had  been  sparingly  introduced.  Art  is  timid  in  the  provinces ; 
and  though  in  1829  some  progress  had  been  made  in  architec- 
tural ornament   (thanks  to  certain  writers),  the  owners   of 


138  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

houses  shrank  at  that  time  from  an  expense  which  lack  of 
competition  and  scarcity  of  craftsmen  rendered  somewhat 
formidable. 

The  tower  at  either  end  (three  windows  in  depth)  was 
crowned  by  a  high-pitched  roof,  with  a  granite  balustrade  by 
way  of  decoration ;  each  angle  of  the  pyramid  was  sharply 
cut  by  an  elegant  balcony  lined  with  lead,  and  surrounded  by 
cast-iron  railings,  and  an  elegantly  sculptured  window  occupy- 
ing each  side  of  the  roof.  All  the  door  and  window  cornices 
on  each  story  were  likewise  ornamented  with  carved  work 
copied  from  Genoese  palace  fronts.  The  three  side  windows 
of  the  southern  tower  looked  out  over  Montegnac,  the 
northern  gave  a  view  of  the  forest. 

From  the  eastern  windows  you  could  see  beyond  the  gar- 
dens that  part  of  Mont6gnac  where  the  Tascherons  had  lived, 
and  far  down  below  in  the  valley  the  road  which  led  to  the 
chief  town  in  the  arrondissement.  From  the  west  front, 
which  faced  towards  the  courtyard,  you  saw  the  wide  map  of 
the  plain  stretching  away  on  the  Montegnac  side  to  the  moun- 
tains of  the  Corrdze,  and  elsewhere  to  the  circle  of  the 
horizon,  where  it  blended  with  the  sky. 

The  wings  were  low,  the  single  story  being  built  in  the 
mansard  roof,  in  the  old  French  style,  but  the  towers  at 
either  end  rose  a  story  higher.  The  central  tower  was  crowned 
by  a  sort  of  flattened  dome  like  the  clock  towers  of  the  Tuil- 
eries  or  the  Louvre  ;  the  single  room  in  the  turret  was  a  sort 
of  belvedere,  and  fitted  with  a  turret-clock.  Ridge  tiles  had 
been  used  for  economy's  sake;  the  massive  balks  of  timber 
from  the  forest  readily  carried  the  enormous  weight  of  the 
roof. 

Graslin's  "  folly,"  as  he  called  the  chateau,  had  brought 
five  hundred  thousand  francs  into  the  commune.  He  had 
planned  the  road  before  he  died,  and  the  commune  out  of 
gratitude  had  finished  it.  Montegnac  had,  moreover,  grown 
considerably.     Behind  the  stables  and  outbuildings,  on  the 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT^IGNAC.  139 

north  side  of  the  hill  where  it  slopes  gradually  down  into  the 
plain,  Graslin  had  begun  to  build  the  steadings  of  a  farm  on 
a  large  scale,  which  showed  that  he  had  meant  to  turn  the 
waste  land  in  the  plain  to  account.  The  plantations  con- 
sidered indispensable  by  M.  Bonnet  were  still  proceeding 
under  the  direction  of  a  head  gardener  with  six  men,  who 
were  lodged  in  the  outbuildings. 

The  whole  ground  floor  of  the  chateau,  taken  up  by  sitting- 
rooms,  had  been  splendidly  furnished,  but  the  second  story 
was  rather  bare,  M,  Graslin's  death  having  suspended  the  up- 
holsterer's operations. 

"  Ah  !  my  lord,"  said  Mme.  Graslin,  turning  to  the  bishop, 
after  they  had  been  through  the  chateau,  "  I  had  thought  to 
live  here  in  a  thatched  cottage.  Poor  M.  Graslin  committed 
many  follies " 

"  And  you "  the  bishop  added,  after  a  pause,  and  Mme. 

Graslin's  light  shudder  did  not  escape  him — '■^ you  are  about 
to  do  charitable  deeds,  are  you  not  ?  " 

She  went  to  her  mother,  who  held  little  Francis  by  the 
hand,  laid  her  hand  on  the  old  woman's  arm,  and  went  with 
the  two  as  far  as  the  long  terrace  which  rose  above  the  church 
and  the  parsonage  ;  all  the  houses  in  the  village,  rising  step- 
wise up  the  hillside,  could  be  seen  at  once.  The  cure  took 
possession  of  M.  Dutheil,  and  began  to  point  out  the  various 
features  of  the  landscape  ;  but  the  eyes  of  both  ecclesiastics 
soon  turned  to  the  terrace,  where  V^ronique  and  her  mother 
stood  motionless  as  statues ;  the  older  woman  took  out  a  hand- 
kerchief and  wiped  her  eyes,  her  daughter  leaned  upon  the 
balustrade,  and  seemed  to  be  pointing  out  the  church  below. 

"What  is  the  matter,  madame  ?  "  the  Cure  Bonnet  asked, 
turning  to  La  Sauviat. 

"Nothing,"  answered  Mme.  Graslin,  coming  towards  the 
two  priests  and  facing  them.  "  I  did  not  know  that  the 
churchyard  would  be  right  under  my  eyes " 

"  You  can  have  it  removed  ;  the  law  is  on  your  side." 


140  THE   COUATRY  PARSON. 

"  The  law  !  "  the  words  broke  from  her  like  a  cry  of  pain. 

Again  the  bishop  looked  at  Veronique.  But  she — tired  of 
meeting  that  sombre  glance,  which  seemed  to  lay  bare  the 
soul  and  discover  her  secret  in  its  depths,  a  secret  buried  in  a 
grave  in  that  churchyard — cried  out — 

"  Very  well,  then— ^^j  /  " 

The  bishop  laid  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  so  overwhelmed  by 
this,  that  for  some  moments  he  stood  lost  in  thought. 

"Hold  her  up,"  cried  the  old  mother;  "she  is  turning 
pale." 

"  The  air  here  is  so  keen,  I  have  taken  a  chill,"  murmured 
Mme.  Graslin,  and  she  sank  fainting  as  the  two  ecclesiastics 
caught  her  in  their  arms.  They  carried  her  into  the  house, 
and  when  she  came  to  herself  again  she  saw  the  bishop  and 
the  cure  kneeling  in  prayer  for  her. 

"  May  the  angel  which  has  visited  you  ever  stay  beside 
you  !  "  the  bishop  said,  as  he  gave  her  his  blessing.  "  Adieu, 
my  daughter." 

Mme.  Graslin  burst  into  tears  at  the  words. 

"  Is  she  really  saved  ?  "  cried  the  old  mother. 

"In  this  world  and  in  the  next,"  the  bishop  turned  to  an- 
swer, as  he  left  the  room. 

Mme.  Graslin  had  been  carried  by  her  mother's  orders  to  a 
room  on  the  first  floor  of  the  southern  tower ;  the  windows 
looked  out  upon  the  churchyard  and  the  south  side  of  Mon- 
tegnac.  Here  she  chose  to  remain,  and  installed  herself  there 
as  best  she  could  with  her  maid  Aline,  and  little  Francis. 
Mme.  Sauviat's  room  naturally  was  near  her  daughter's. 

It  was  some  days  before  Mme.  Graslin  recovered  from  the 
cruel  agitation  which  prostrated  her  on  the  day  of  her  arrival, 
and,  moreover,  her  mother  insisted  that  she  must  stay  in  bed  in 
the  morning.  In  the  evening,  however,  Veronique  came  to  sit 
on  a  bench  on  the  terrace,  and  looked  down  on  the  church 
and  parsonage  and  into  the  churchyard.  In  spite  of  mute 
opposition  on  Mme.  Sauviat's  part,  Veronique  contracted  a 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONTilGNAC.  141 

habit  of  always  sitting  in  the  same  place  and  giving  way  to 
melancholy  broodings ;  it  was  almost  a  mania. 

"  Madame  is  dying,"  Aline  said  to  the  old  mother. 

At  last  the  two  women  spoke  to  the  cure;  and  he,  good 
man,  who  had  shrunk  from  intruding  himself  upon  Mme. 
Graslin,  came  assiduously  to  see  her  when  he  learned  that 
she  was  suffering  from  some  malady  of  the  soul,  carefully 
timing  his  visits  so  that  he  always  found  Veronique  and  the 
child,  both  in  mourning,  out  on  the  terrace.  The  country 
was  already  beginning  to  look  dreary  and  sombre  in  the  early 
days  of  October. 

When  Veronique  first  came  to  the  chateau,  M.  Bonnet  had 
seen  at  once  that  she  was  suffering  from  some  hidden  wound, 
but  he  thought  it  better  to  wait  until  his  future  penitent  should 
give  him  her  confidence.  One  evening,  however,  he  saw  an 
expression  in  Mme.  Graslin's  eyes  that  warned  him  to  hesitate 
no  longer — the  dull  apathy  of  a  mind  brooding  over  the 
thought  of  death.  He  set  himself  to  check  the  progress  of 
this  cruel  disease  of  the  mind. 

At  first  there  was  a  sort  of  struggle  between  them,  a  fence 
of  empty  words,  each  of  them  striving  to  disguise  their 
thoughts.  The  evening  was  chilly,  but  for  all  that  Veronique 
sat  out  on  the  granite  bench  with  little  Francis  on  her  knee. 
She  could  not  see  the  churchyard,  for  Mme.  Sauviat,  leaning 
against  the  parapet,  deliberately  shut  it  out  from  sight.  Aline 
stood  waiting  to  take  the  child  indoors.  It  was  the  seventh 
time  that  the  cur6  had  found  Veronique  there  on  the  terrace. 
He  spoke — 

"  I  used  to  think  that  you  were  merely  sad,  madame,  but," 
and  he  lowered  his  voice  and  spoke  in  her  ear,  "  this  is  de- 
spair. Despair,  Madame  Graslin,  is  neither  Christian  nor 
is  it  Catholic." 

"  Oh  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  an  intent  glance  at  the  sky, 
and  a  bitter  smile  stole  over  her  lips,  "  what  would  the  church 
leave  to  a  damned  soul,  if  not  despair?  " 


142  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Her  words  revealed  to  the  cur6  how  far  this  soul  had  been 
laid  waste. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  making  for  yourself  a  hell  out  of  this  hill- 
side, when  it  should  rather  be  a  calvary  whence  your  soul 
might  lift  itself  up  towards  heaven." 

"  I  am  too  humble  now,"  she  said,  "  to  put  myself  on  such 
a  pedestal,"  and  her  tone  was  a  revelation  of  the  depth  of  her 
self-scorn. 

Then  a  sudden  light  flashed  across  the  cur6 — one  of  the 
inspirations  which  come  so  often  and  so  naturally  to  noble 
and  pure  souls  who  live  with  God.  He  took  up  the  child  and 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead.  **  Poor  little  one  !  "  he  said,  in 
a  fatherly  voice,  and  gave  the  child  to  the  nurse,  who  took 
him  away.  Mme.  Sauviat  looked  at  her  daughter,  and  saw 
how  powerfully  those  words  had  wrought  on  her,  for  Veron- 
ique's  eyes,  long  dry,  were  wet  with  tears.  Then  she  too 
went,  with  a  sign  to  the  priest. 

"Will  you  take  a  walk  on  the  terrace?"  suggested  M. 
Bonnet  when  they  were  alone.  "  You  are  in  my  charge;  I 
am  accountable  to  God  for  your  sick  soul,"  and  they  went 
towards  the  end  of  the  terrace  above  "  Tascherons'." 

"  Leave  me  to  recover  from  my  prostration,"  she  said. 

"Your  prostration  is  the  result  of  pernicious  broodings." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  the  na"vet6  of  pain,  too  sorely 
troubled  to  fence  any  longer. 

"  I  see,"  he  answered  ;  "  you  have  sunk  into  the  depths  of 
indifference.  If  physical  pain  passes  a  certain  point  it  extin- 
guishes modesty,  and  so  it  is  with  mental  anguish,  it  reaches  a 
degree  when  the  soul  grows  faint  within  us  ;  I  know." 

V^ronique  was  not  prepared  for  this  subtle  observation  and 
tender  pity  in  M.  Bonnet ;  but  as  has  been  seen  already,  the 
quick  sympathies  of  a  heart  unjaded  by  emotion  of  its  own 
had  taught  him  to  detect  and  feel  the  pain  of  others  among 
his  flock  with  the  maternal  instinct  of  a  woman.  This  apos- 
tolic tenderness,  this  mens  divinior,  raises  the  priest  above  his 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONTAGNAC.  143 

fellow-men  and  makes  of  him  a  being  divine.  Mme.  Graslin 
had  not  as  yet  looked  deep  enough  into  the  cure's  nature  to 
discover  the  beauty  hidden  away  in  that  soul,  the  source  of 
its  grace  and  freshness  and  its  inner  life. 

"Ah!    monsieur "she    began,    and    a   glance   and   a 

gesture,  such  a  gesture  and  glance  as  the  dying  give,  put  her 
secret  into  his  keeping. 

"  I  understand  !  "  he  answered.  **  But  what  then  ?  What 
is  to  be  done?  " 

Silently  they  went  along  the  terrace  towards  the  plain.  To 
the  bearer  of  good-tidings,  the  son  of  Christ,  the  solemn 
moment  seemed  propitious. 

**  Suppose  that  you  stood  now  before  the  Throne  of  God," 
he  said,  and  his  voice  grew  low  and  mysterious,  "what  would 
you  say  to  Him?" 

Mme.  Graslin  stopped  short  as  if  thunderstruck;  a  light 
shudder  ran  through  her. 

"I  should  say  to  Him  as  Christ  said,  *  My  Father,  Thou 
hast  forsaken  me  !  '  "  she  answered  simply.  The  tones  of  her 
voice  brought  tears  to  the  cure's  eyes. 

"  Oh  Magdalen,  those  are  the  very  words  I  was  waiting  to 
hear  !  "  he  exclaimed,  unable  to  refuse  his  admiration.  "  You 
see,  you  appeal  to  God's  justice!  Listen,  madame,  religion 
is  the  rule  of  God  before  the  time.  The  church  reserves  the 
right  of  judgment  in  all  that  concerns  the  soul.  Man's  justice 
is  but  the  faint  image  of  God's  justice,  a  pale  shadow  of  the 
eternal  adapted  to  the  temporal  needs  of  society." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  judge  in  your  own  cause,  you  are  amenable  to 
God ;  you  have  no  right  to  condemn  nor  to  pardon  yourself. 
God  is  the  great  reviser  of  judgments,  my  daughter." 

"Ah!"  she  cried. 

"  He  sees  to  the  origin  of  all  things,  while  we  only  see  the 
things  themselves." 

Again  Vdronique  stopped.     These  ideas  were  new  to  her. 


144  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"To  a  soul  as  lofty  as  yours,"  he  went  on  courageously, 
** I  do  not  speak  as  to  my  poor  parishioners;  I  owe  it  to  you 
to  use  a  different  language.  You  who  have  so  cultivated  your 
mind  can  rise  to  the  knowledge  of  the  spirit  of  the  Catholic 
religion,  which  words  and  symbols  must  express  and  make 
visible  to  the  eyes  of  babes  and  the  poor.  Follow  what  I 
am  about  to  say  carefully,  for  it  refers  to  you ;  and  if  the 
point  of  view  which  I  take  for  the  moment  seems  wide,  it  is 
none  the  less  your  own  case  which  I  am  considering,  and  now 
about  to  make  clear  to  your  understanding. 

**  Justice,  devised  for  the  protection  of  society,  is  based  upon 
a  theory  of  the  equality  of  individuals.  Society,  which  is 
nothing  but  an  aggregation  of  facts,  is  based  on  inequality. 
So  there  is  a  fundamental  discrepancy  between  justice  and 
fact.  Should  the  law  exercise  a  restraining  or  encouraging 
influence  on  the  progress  of  society?  In  other  words,  should 
the  law  oppose  itself  to  the  internal  tendency  of  society,  so 
as  to  maintain  things  as  they  are ;  or,  on  the  other  hand, 
should  the  law  be  more  flexible,  adapt  itself,  and  keep  pace 
with  the  tendency  so  as  to  guide  it  ?  No  maker  of  laws  since 
men  began  to  live  together  has  taken  it  upon  himself  to  decide 
that  problem.  All  legislators  have  been  content  to  analyze 
facts,  to  indicate  those  which  seemed  to  them  to  be  blame- 
worthy or  criminal,  and  to  prescribe  punishments  or  rewards. 
Such  is  law  as  man  has  made  it.  It  is  powerless  to  prevent 
evil-doing ;  powerless  no  less  to  prevent  offenders  who  have 
been  punished  from  offending  again. 

"  Philanthropy  is  a  sublime  error.  Philanthropy  vainly 
applies  severe  discipline  to  the  body,  while  it  cannot  find  the 
balm  which  heals  the  soul.  Philanthropy  conceives  projects, 
sets  forth  theories,  and  leaves  mankind  to  carry  them  out  by 
means  of  silence,  work,  and  discipline— dumb  methods,  with 
no  virtue  in  them.  Religion  knows  nought  of  these  imperfec- 
tions ;  for  her,  life  extends  beyond  this  world  ;  for  religion,  we 
are  all  of  us  fallen  creatures  in  a  state  of  degradation,  and  it 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  145 

is  this  very  view  of  mankind  which  opens  out  to  us  an 
inexhaustible  treasure  of  indulgence.  All  of  us  are  on  the 
way  to  our  conniplete  regeneration,  some  of  us  are  farther 
advanced,  and  some  less,  but  none  of  us  are  infallible ;  the 
church  is  prepared  for  sins,  aye,  and  even  for  crimes.  In 
a  criminal,  society  sees  an  individual  to  be  cut  off  from  its 
midst,  but  the  church  sees  in  him  a  soul  to  be  saved.     And 

more,  far  more  ! Inspired  by  God,  whose  dealings  with 

man  she  watches  and  ponders,  the  church  admits  our  inequal- 
ity as  human  beings,  and  takes  the  disproportionate  burden 
into  account,  and  we  who  are  so  unequal  in  heart,  in  body  or 
mind,  in  courage  or  aptitude,  are  made  equal  by  repentance. 
In  this,  madame,  equality  is  no  empiy  word ;  we  can  be,  and 
are,- all  equal  through  our  sentiments. 

*'  One  idea  runs  through  all  religions,  from  the  uncouth 
fetichism  of  the  savage  to  the  graceful  imaginings  of  the 
Greek  and  the  profound  and  ingenious  doctrines  of  India 
and  Egypt,  an  idea  that  finds  expression  in  all  cults  joyous 
or  gloomy,  a  conviction  of  man's  fall  and  of  his  sin,  whence, 
everywhere,  the  idea  of  sacrifice  and  redemption. 

"The  death  of  the  Redeemer,  who  died  for  the  whole 
human  race,  is  for  us  a  symbol ;  this,  too,  we  must  do  for  our- 
selves ;  we  must  redeem  our  errors  ! — redeem  our  sins  ! — re- 
deem our  crimes !  There  is  no  sin  beyond  redemption — all 
Catholicism  lies  in  that.  It  is  the  wherefore  of  the  holy 
sacraments  which  assist  in  the  work  of  grace  and  sustain  the 
repentant  sinner.  And  though  one  should  weep,  madame, 
and  sigh  like  the  Magdalen  in  the  desert,  this  is  but  the  begin- 
ning— an  action  is  the  end.  The  monasteries  wept,  but  acted 
too ;  they  prayed,  but  they  civilized ;  they  were  the  active 
practical  spreaders  of  our  divine  religion.  They  built,  and 
planted,  and  tilled  Europe ;  they  rescued  the  treasures  of 
learning  for  us;  to  them  we  owe  the  preservation  of  our  juris- 
prudence, our  traditions  of  statecraft  and  art.  The  sites  of 
those  centres  of  light  will  be  for  ever  remembered  in  Europe 
10 


146  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

with  gratitude.  Most  modern  towns  sprang  up  about  a  mon- 
astery. 

"If  you  believe  that  God  is  to  judge  you,  the  church, 
using  my  voice,  tells  you  that  there  is  no  sin  beyond  redemp- 
tion through  the  good  works  of  repentance.  The  evil  we 
have  wrought  is  weighed  against  the  good  that  we  have  done 
by  the  great  hands  of  God.  Be  yourself  a  monastery  here ; 
it  is  within  your  power  to  work  miracles  once  more.  For  you, 
work  must  be  prayer.  Your  work  should  be  to  diffuse  happi- 
ness among  those  above  whom  you  have  been  set  by  your 
fortune  and  your  intellect,  and  in  all  ways,  even  by  your 
natural  position,  for  the  height  of  your  chateau  above  the 
village  is  a  visible  expression  of  your  social  position." 

They  were  turning  towards  the  plains  as  he  spoke,  so  that 
the  cure  could  point  out  the  village  on  the  lower  slopes  of 
the  hill  and  the  chateau  towering  above  it.  It  was  half-past 
four  in  the  afternoon.  A  shaft  of  yellow  sunlight  fell  across 
the  terrace  and  the  gardens ;  it  lighted  up  the  chateau  and 
brought  out  the  pattern  of  the  gleaming  gilt  scroll-work  on 
the  corner  balconies  high  up  on  the  towers;  it  lit  the  plain 
which  stretched  into  the  distance  divided  by  the  road,  a  sober 
gray  ribbon  with  no  embroidery  of  trees  as  yet  to  outline  a 
waving  green  border  on  either  side.  V^ronique  and  M.  Bon- 
net passed  the  end  of  the  ch&teau  and  came  into  the  court- 
yard, beyond  which  the  stables  and  barn  buildings  lay  in 
sight,  and  farther  yet,  the  forest  of  Montdgnac  ;  the  sunlight 
slid  across  the  landscape  like  a  lingering  caress.  Even  when 
the  last  glow  of  the  sunset  had  faded  except  from  the  highest 
hills,  it  was  still  light  enough  in  the  plain  below  to  see  all  the 
chance  effects  of  color  in  the  splendid  tapestry  of  an  autumn 
forest  spread  between  Mont6gnac  and  the  first  peak  of  the 
chain  of  the  Corr^ze.  The  oak  trees  stood  out  like  masses 
of  Florentine  bronze  among  the  verdigris  greens  of  the  walnuts 
and  chestnuts ;  the  leaves  of  a  few  trees,  the  first  to  change, 
shone  like  gold  among  the  others;  and  all  these  different 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONTAGiVAC.  147 

shades  of  color  were  emphasized  by  the  gray  patches  of  bare 
earth.  The  trunks  of  leafless  trees  looked  like  pale  columns ; 
and  every  tint,  red,  tawny,  and  gray,  picturesquely  blended  in 
the  pale  October  sunshine,  made  a  harmony  of  color  with  the 
fertile  lowland,  where  the  vast  fallows  were  green  as  stagnant 
water.  Not  a  tree  stirred,  not  a  bird — death  in  the  plain, 
silence  in  the  forest ;  a  thought  in  the  priest's  mind,  as  yet 
unuttered,  was  to  be  the  sole  comment  on  that  dumb  beauty. 
A  streak  of  smoke  rose  here  and  there  from  the  thatched  roofs 
of  the  village.  The  chateau  seemed  sombre  as  its  mistress' 
mood,  for  there  is  a  mysterious  law  of  uniformity,  in  virtue 
of  which  the  house  takes  its  character  from  the  dominant 
nature  within  it,  a  subtle  presence  which  hovers  throughout. 
The  sense  of  the  cure's  words  had  reached  Mme.  Graslin's 
brain ;  they  had  gone  to  her  heart  with  all  the  force  of  con- 
viction ;  the  angelic  resonance  of  his  voice  had  stirred  her 
tenderness ;  she  stopped  suddenly  short.  The  cure  stretched 
his  arm  out  towards  the  forest ;  Veronique  looked  at  him. 

"Do  you  not  see  a  dim  resemblance  between  this  and  the 
life  of  humanity  ?  His  own  fate  for  each  of  us  !  And  what 
unequal  lots  there  are  among  that  mass  of  trees.  Those  on 
the  highest  ground  have  poorer  soil  and  less  water ;  they  are 
the  first  to  die " 

"  And  some  are  cut  down  in  the  grace  of  their  youth  by  some 
woman  gathering  wood  !  "  she  said  bitterly. 

"  Do  not  give  way  to  those  feelings  again,"  he  answered 
firmly,  but  with  indulgence  in  his  manner.  "  The  forest  has 
not  been  cut  down,  and  that  has  been  its  ruin.  Do  you  see 
something  yonder  there  among  the  dense  forest  ?  " 

Vdronique  could  scarcely  distinguish  between  the  usual  and 
unusual  in  a  forest,  but  she  obediently  looked  in  the  required 
direction,  and  then  timidly  at  the  cure. 

"  Do  you  not  observe,"  he  said,  seeing  in  that  glance  that 
Veronique  did  not  understand,  "  that  there  are  strips  where 
all  the  trees  of  every  kind  are  still  green  ?  " 


148  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"  Oh,  SO  there  are  !  "  she  cried.     "  How  is  it  ?  " 

"  In  those  strips  of  green  lies  a  fortune  for  Montegnac  and 
for  you — a  vast  fortune,  as  I  pointed  out  to  M.  Graslin. 
You  can  see  three  furrows;  those  are  three  valleys,  the 
streams  there  are  lost  in  the  torrent-bed  of  the  Gabou.  The 
Gabou  is  the  boundary  line  between  us  and  the  next  commune. 
All  through  September  and  October  it  is  dry,  but  when 
November  comes  it  will  be  full.  All  that  water  runs  to  waste  ; 
but  it  would  be  easy  to  make  one  or  two  weirs  across  from  side 
to  side  of  the  valley  to  keep  back  the  water  (as  Riquet  did  at 
Saint-Ferr6ol,  where  there  are  huge  reservoirs  which  supply 
the  Languedoc  canal);  and  it  would  be  easy  to  increase  the 
volume  of  the  water  by  turning  several  little  streams  in  the 
forest  into  the  river.  Wisely  distributing  it  as  required,  by 
means  of  sluices  and  irrigation  trenches,  the  whole  plain  can 
be  brought  into  cultivation,  and  the  overflow,  besides,  could 
be  turned  into  our  little  river. 

"You  will  have  fine  poplars  along  all  the  channels,  and 
you  will  raise  cattle  in  the  finest  possible  meadows.  What  is 
grass  but  water  and  sun?  You  could  grow  corn  in  the  plain, 
there  is  quite  enough  depth  of  earth  ;  with  so  many  trenches 
there  will  be  moisture  to  enrich  the  soil ;  the  poplar  trees  will 
flourish  along  the  channels  and  attract  the  rain-clouds,  and  the 
fields  will  absorb  the  principles  of  the  rain :  these  are  the 
secrets  of  the  luxuriant  greenness  of  the  valleys.  Some 
day  you  will  see  life  and  joy  and  stir  instead  of  this  prevail- 
ing silence  and  barren  dreariness.  Will  not  this  be  a  noble 
prayer?  Will  not  these  things  occupy  your  idleness  better 
than  melancholy  broodings?  " 

V^ronique  grasped  the  curb's  hand,  and  made  but  a  brief 
answer,  but  that  answer  was  grand — 

"It  shall  be  done,  monsieur." 

"You  have  a  conception  of  this  great  thing,"  he  began 
again,  "  but  you  will  not  carry  it  out  yourself.  Neither  you 
nor  I  have  knowledge  enough  for  the  realization  of  a  thought 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MOXTEGNAC.  149 

which  might  occur  to  any  one,  but  that  raises  immense  prac- 
tical difficulties;  for  simple  and  almost  invisible  as  those  diffi- 
culties are,  they  call  for  the  most  accurate  skill  of  science. 
So  to-morrow  begin  your  search  for  the  human  instruments 
which,  in  a  dozen  years'  time,  will  contrive  that  the  six 
thousand  acres  thus  brought  into  cultivation  shall  yield  you 
an  income  of  six  or  seven  thousand  louis  d'or.  The  under- 
taking will  make  Montegnac  one  of  the  richest  communes  in 
the  department  some  day.  The  forest  brings  in  nothing  as 
yet ;  but  sooner  or  later  buyers  will  come  here  for  the  splendid 
timber,  treasures  slowly  accumulated  by  time,  the  only  treas- 
ures which  man  cannot  procure  save  by  patient  waiting, 
and  cannot  do  without.  Perhaps  some  day  (who  knows) 
the  government  will  take  steps  to  open  up  ways  of  transporting 
timber  grown  here  to  its  dockyards ;  but  the  government  will 
wait  until  Montegnac  is  ten  times  its  present  size  before  giving 
its  fostering  aid;  for  the  government,  like  fortune,  gives  only 
to  those  who  have.  By  that  time  this  estate  will  be  one  of 
the  finest  in  France ;  it  will  be  the  pride  of  your  grandson, 
who  may  possibly  find  the  chfi,teau  too  small  in  proportion  to 
his  income." 

"  That  is  a  future  for  me  to  live  for,"  said  Veronique. 

"  Such  a  work  might  redeem  many  errors,"  said  the  cur6. 

Seeing  that  he  was  understood,  he  endeavored  to  send  a 
last  shaft  home  by  way  of  her  intelligence ;  he  had  divined 
that  in  the  woman  before  him  the  heart  could  only  be  reached 
through  the  brain  ;  whereas,  in  other  women,  the  way  to  the 
brain  lies  through  the  heart. 

"Do  you  know  what  a  great  mistake  you  are  making?" 
he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

She  looked  at  him  with  frightened  eyes. 

"Your  repentance  as  yet  is  only  the  consciousness  of  a 
defeat.  If  there  is  anything  fearful,  it  is  the  despair  of  Satan  ; 
and  perhaps  man's  repentance  was  like  this  before  Jesus  Christ 
came  on  earth.     But  for  us  Catholics,  repentance  is  the  horror 


150  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

which  seizes  on  a  soul  hurrying  on  its  downward  course,  and 
in  that  shock  God  reveals  Himself.  You  are  like  a  Pagan 
Orestes ;  become  a  Saint  Paul !  " 

"Your  words  have  just  wrought  a  complete  change  in  me," 
she  cried.     "  Now,  oh  !  I  want  to  live  !  " 

"The  spirit  has  overcome,"  the  humble  priest  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  went  away,  glad  at  heart.  He  had  found  food  for 
the  secret  despair  which  was  gnawing  Mme.  Graslin,  by  giv- 
ing to  her  repentance  the  form  of  a  good  and  noble  deed. 

The  very  next  day,  therefore,  Veronique  wrote  to  M.  Gros- 
setete,  and  in  answer  to  her  letter  three  saddle-horses  arrived 
from  Limoges  for  her  in  less  than  a  week,  M.  Bonnet  made 
inquiries,  and  sent  the  postmaster's  son  to  the  chateau ;  the 
young  fellow,  Maurice  Champion  by  name,  was  only  too 
pleased  to  put  himself  at  Mme.  Graslin's  disposal,  with  a 
chance  of  earning  some  fifty  crowns.  Veronique  took  a  liking 
for  the  lad — round-faced,  black-eyed,  and  black-haired,  short, 
and  well  built — and  he  was  at  once  installed  as  groom ;  he 
was  to  ride  out  with  his  mistress  and  to  take  charge  of  the 
horses. 

The  head  forester  at  Mont6gnac  was  a  native  of  Limoges, 
an  old  quartermaster  in  the  Royal  Guard.  He  had  been 
transferred  from  another  estate  when  the  Due  de  Navarreins 
began  to  think  of  selling  the  Montegnac  lands,  and  wanted 
information  to  guide  him  in  the  matter;  but  in  Montegnac 
forest  Jerome  Colorat  only  saw  waste  land,  never  likely  to 
come  under  cultivation,  timber  valueless  for  lack  of  means  of 
transport,  gardens  run  wild,  and  a  castle  in  ruins,  calling  for 
a  vast  outlay  if  it  was  to  be  set  in  order  and  made  habitable. 
He  saw  wide  rock-strewn  spaces  and  conspicuous  gray  patches 
of  granite  even  in  the  forest,  and  the  honest  but  unintelligent 
servant  took  fright  at  these  things.  This  was  how  the  property 
had  come  into  the  market. 

Mme.  Graslin  sent  for  this  forester. 

"Colorat,"  she  said,  "I  shall  most  probably  ride  out  to- 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  151 

morrow  morning  and  every  following  day.  You  should  know 
the  different  bits  of  outlying  land  which  M.  Graslin  added  to 
the  estate,  and  you  must  point  them  out  to  me ;  I  want  to  see 
everything  for  myself." 

The  servants  at  the  chateau  were  delighted  at  this  change 
in  Veronique's  life.  Aline  found  out  her  mistress'  old  black 
riding  habit,  and  mended  it,  without  being  told  to  do  so,  and 
next  morning,  with  inexpressible  pleasure,  Mme.  Sauviat  saw 
her  daughter  dressed  for  a  riding  excursion.  With  Champion 
and  the  forester  as  her  guides,  Mme.  Graslin  set  herself  first 
of  all  to  climb  the  heights.  She  wanted  to  understand  the 
position  of  the  slopes  and  the  glens,  the  natural  roadways 
cleft  in  the  long  ridge  of  the  mountain.  She  would  measure 
her  task,  study  the  course  of  the  streams,  and  see  the  rough 
material  of  the  cure's  schemes.  The  forester  and  Champion 
were  often  obliged  to  consult  their  memories,  for  the  moun- 
tain paths  were  scarcely  visible  in  that  wild  country,  Colorat 
went  in  front,  and  Champion  followed  a  few  paces  from 
her  side. 

So  long  as  they  kept  in  the  denser  forest,  climbing  and 
descending  the  continual  undulations  of  a  French  mountain 
district,  its  wonders  filled  Veronique's  mind.  The  mighty 
trees  which  had  stood  for  centuries  amazed  her,  until  she  saw 
so  many  that  they  ceased  to  be  a  surprise.  Then  others  suc- 
ceeded, full  grown  and  ready  for  felling ;  or  in  a  forest  clear- 
ing some  single  pine  risen  to  giant  height ;  or,  stranger  still, 
some  common  shrub,  a  dwarf  growth  elsewhere,  here  risen, 
under  some  unusual  conditions,  to  the  height  of  a  tree  nearly 
as  old  as  the  soil  in  which  it  grew.  The  wreaths  of  mist 
rolling  over  the  bare  rocks  filled  her  with  indescribable  feel- 
ings. Higher  yet,  pale  furrows  cut  by  the  melting  snows 
looked  like  scars  far  up  on  the  mountain  sides ;  there  were 
bleak  ravines  in  which  no  plant  grew,  hillside  slopes  where 
the  soil  had  been  washed  away,  leaving  bare  the  rock-clefts, 
where  the  hundred-year-old  chestnuts  grew  straight  and  tall  as 


152  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

pines  in  the  Alps  ;  sometimes  they  went  by  vast  shifting  sands, 
or  boggy  places  where  the  trees  are  few ;  by  fallen  masses  of 
gx^n\\.l,  overhanging  crags,  dark  glens,  wide  stretches  of  burnt 
grass  or  moor,  where  the  heather  was  still  in  bloom,  arid  and 
lonely  spots  where  the  caper  grows  and  the  juniper,  then 
through  meadows  covered  with  fine  short  grass,  where  the  rich 
alluvial  soil  had  been  brought  down  and  deposited  century 
after  century  by  the  mountain  torrents ;  in  short,  this  rapid 
ride  gave  her  something  like  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  land,  a 
glimpse  of  the  dreariness  and  grandeur,  the  strength  and 
sweetness  of  nature's  wilder  moods  in  the  mountain  country 
of  midland  France.  And  by  dint  of  gazing  at  these  pictures 
so  various  in  form,  but  instinct  with  the  same  thought,  the 
deep  sadness  expressed  by  the  wild  ruined  land  in  its  barren- 
ness and  neglect  passed  into  her  own  thoughts,  and  found  a 
response  in  her  secret  soul.  As,  through  some  gap  in  the 
woods,  she  looked  down  on  the  gray  stretch  of  plain  below,  or 
when  their  way  led  up  some  parched  ravine  where  a  few 
stunted  shrubs  starved  among  the  boulders  and  the  sand,  by 
sheer  reiteration  of  the  same  sights  she  fell  under  the  influence 
of  this  stern  scenery;  it  called  up  new  ideas  in  her  mind, 
stirred  to  a  sense  of  the  significance  underlying  these  outward 
and  visible  forms.  There  is  no  spot  in  a  forest  but  has  this 
inner  sense,  not  a  clearing,  not  a  thicket,  but  has  an  analogy 
in  the  labyrinth  of  the  human  thought. 

Who  is  there  with  a  thinking  brain  or  a  wounded  heart 
that  can  pass  through  a  forest  and  find  the  forest  dumb?  Be- 
fore you  are  aware  its  voice  is  in  your  ears,  a  soothing  or  an 
awful  voice,  but  more  often  soothing  than  awful.  And  if 
you  were  to  examine  very  closely  into  the  causes  of  this  sensa- 
tion, this  solemn,  incomplex,  subduing,  and  mysterious  forest- 
influence  that  comes  over  you,  perhaps  you  will  find  its  source 
in  the  sublime  and  subtle  effect  of  the  presence  of  so  many 
creatures  all  obedient  to  their  destinies,  immovable  in  sub- 
mission.    Sooner  or  later  the  overwhelming  sense  of  the  abid- 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  153 

ingness  of  nature  fills  your  heart  and  stirs  deeper  feelings, 
until  at  length  you  grow  restless  to  find  God  in  it.  And  so  it 
was  that  the  silence  of  the  mountain  heights  about  her,  out 
in  the  pure  clear  air  with  the  forest  scents  in  it,  Veronique 
recovered,  as  she  told  M.  Bonnet  in  the  evening,  the  certainty 
of  Divine  mercy.  She  had  glimpses  of  the  possibility  of  an 
order  of  things  above  and  beyond  that  in  which  her  musings 
had  hitherto  revolved.  She  felt  something  like  happiness. 
For  a  long  time  past  she  had  not  known  such  peace.  Could 
it  have  been  that  she  was  conscious  of  a  certain  likeness  be- 
tween this  country  and  the  waste  and  dried-up  places  in  her 
own  soul  ?  Did  she  look  with  a  certain  exultation  on  the 
troubles  of  nature  with  some  thought  that  matter  was  punished 
here  for  no  sin  ?  Certain  it  is  that  her  inner  self  was  strongly 
stirred. 

More  than  once  Colorat  and  Champion  looked  at  her,  and 
then  at  each  other,  as  if  for  them  slie  was  transfigured.  One 
spot  in  particular  that  they  reached  in  the  steep  bed  of  a  dry 
torrent  seemed  to  Veronique  to  be  unspeakably  arid.  It  was 
with  a  certain  surprise  that  she  found  herself  longing  to  hear 
the  sound  of  falling  water  in  those  scorching  ravines. 

"  Always  to  love  !  "  she  thought.  The  words  seemed  like 
a  reproach  spoken  aloud  by  a  voice.  In  confusion  she  urged 
her  horse  blindly  up  towards  the  summit  of  the  mountain  of 
the  Correze,  and  in  spite  of  her  guides  dashed  up  to  the  top 
(called  the  Living  Rock),  and  stood  there  alone.  For  several 
moments  she  scanned  the  whole  country  below  her.  She  had 
heard  the  secret  voices  of  so  many  existences  asking  to  live, 
and  now  something  took  place  within  her  that  determined  her 
to  devote  herself  to  this  work  with  all  the  perseverance  which 
she  had  already  displayed  to  admiration.  She  tied  her  horse's 
bridle  to  a  tree  and  sat  down  on  a  slab  of  rock.  Her  eyes 
wandered  over  the  land  where  nature  showed  herself  so  harsh 
a  step-dame,  and  felt  within  her  own  heart  something  of  the 
mother's  yearning  which  she  had  felt  over  her  child.     Her 


154  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

half-unconscious  meditations,  which,  to  use  her  own  beautiful 
metaphor,  "  had  sifted  her  heart,"  had  prepared  her  to  receive 
the  sublime  teaching  of  the  scene  that  lay  before  her. 

"It  was  then,"  she  told  the  curd,  "  that  I  understood  that 
our  souls  need  to  be  tilled  quite  as  much  as  the  land." 

The  pale  November  sunlight  shone  over  the  wide  landscape, 
but  already  a  few  gray  clouds  were  gathering,  driven  across 
the  sky  by  a  cold  west  wind.  It  was  now  about  three  o'clock. 
Vdronique  had  taken  four  hours  to  reach  the  point ;  but,  as  is 
the  wont  of  those  who  are  gnawed  by  profound  inward  misery, 
she  gave  no  heed  to  anything  without.  At  that  moment  her 
life  shared  the  sublime  movement  of  nature  and  dilated  within 
her, 

*'  Do  not  stay  up  there  any  longer,  madame,"  said  a  man's 
voice,  and  something  in  its  tone  thrilled  her.  "  You  cannot 
reach  home  again  in  any  direction  if  you  do,  for  the  nearest 
house  lies  a  couple  of  leagues  away,  and  it  is  impossible  to 
find  your  way  through  the  forest  in  the  dark.  And  even  those 
risks  are  nothing  compared  with  the  risk  you  are  running 
where  you  are ;  in  a  few  moments  it  will  be  deadly  cold  on 
the  peak ;  no  one  knows  the  why  or  wherefore,  but  it  has 
been  the  death  of  many  a  one  before  now." 

Mme.  Graslin,  looking  down,  saw  a  face  almost  black  with 
sunburn,  and  two  eyes  that  gleamed  from  it  like  tongues  of 
fire.  A  shock  of  brown  hair  hung  on  either  side  of  the  face, 
and  a  long  pointed  beard  wagged  beneath  it.  The  owner  of 
the  face  respectfully  raised  one  of  the  great  broad-brimmed 
hats  which  the  peasantry  wear  in  the  midland  districts  of 
France,  and  displayed  a  bald  but  magnificent  brow,  such  as 
sometimes  in  a  poor  man  compels  the  attention  of  passers-by. 
Vdronique  felt  not  the  slightest  fear ;  for  a  woman  in  such  a 
position  as  hers,  all  the  petty  considerations  which  cause 
feminine  tremors  have  ceased  to  exist. 

"  How  did  you  come  there  ?  "  she  asked  him, 

"  I  live  here,  hard  by,"  the  stranger  answered. 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONTAGNAC.  155 

"And  what  do  you  do  in  this  out-of-the-way  place  ?  "  asked 
Veronique. 

"I  live  in  it." 

" But  how,  and  on  what  do  you  live? " 

"  They  pay  me  a  trifle  for  looking  after  this  part  of  the 
forest,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  slopes  of  the  peak  opposite 
the  plains  of  Montegnac.  As  he  moved,  Mine.  Graslin  caught 
sight  of  a  game-bag  and  the  muzzle  of  a  gun,  and  any  mis- 
givings she  might  have  entertained  vanished  forthwith. 

**  Are  you  a  keeper  ?  " 

**  No,  madame.  You  can't  be  a  keeper  until  you  have  been 
sworn,  and  you  can't  take  the  oath  unless  you  have  all  your 
civic  rights " 

"  Then,  who  are  you  ?  " 

"I  am  Farrabesche,"  said  the  man,  in  deep  humility,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

The  name  told  Mme.  Graslin  nothing.  She  looked  at  the 
man  before  her.  In  an  exceedingly  kindly  face  there  were 
signs  of  latent  savagery ;  the  uneven  teeth  gave  an  ironical 
turn,  a  suggestion  of  evil  hardihood  to  the  mouth  and  blood- 
red  lips.  In  person  he  was  of  middle  height,  broad  in  the 
shoulders,  short  in  the  neck,  which  was  very  full  and  deeply 
sunk.  He  had  the  large  hairy  hands  characteristic  of  violent- 
tempered  people  capable  of  abusing  their  physical  advantages. 
His  last  words  suggested  some  mystery,  and  his  bearing,  face, 
and  figure  all  combined  to  give  to  that  mystery  a  terrible 
interpretation. 

"  So  you  are  in  my  employ?"  Veronique  said  gently. 

"Then  have  I  the  honor  of  speaking  to  Mme.  Graslin  ?" 
asked  Farrabesche. 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  said  she. 

Farrabesche  vanished  with  the  speed  of  some  wild  creature 
after  a  frightened  glance  at  his  mistress.  Veronique  hastily 
mounted  and  went  down  to  her  two  servants ;  the  men  were 
growing  uneasy  about  her,  for  the  inexplicable  unwholesome- 


156  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

ness  of  the  Living  Rock  was  well  known  in  the  country. 
Colorat  begged  her  to  go  down  a  little  valley  into  the  plain. 
"  It  would  be  dangerous  to  return  by  the  higher  ground,"  he 
said  ;  "  the  tracks  were  hard  to  find,  and  crossed  each  other, 
and  in  spite  of  his  knowledge  of  the  country,  he  might  lose 
himself." 

Once  in  the  plain,  V^ronique  slackened  the  pace  of  her 

horse. 

**  Who  is  this  Farrabesche  whom  you  employ? "  she  asked, 
turning  to  the  head  forester. 

"  Did  madame  meet  him  ?  "  exclaimed  Colorat. 

"Yes,  but  he  ran  away." 

"Poor   fellow!      Perhaps  he  does  not   know   how   kind 
madame  is." 

"  But,  after  all,  what  has  he  done  ?  " 

"Why,  madame,  Farrabesche  is  a  murderer,"  Champion 
blurted  out. 

"Then,  of  course,  he  was  pardoned,  was  he  not?  "  V6ron- 
ique  asked  in  a  tremulous  voice. 

"No,  madame,"  Colorat  answered.  "Farrabesche  was 
tried  at  the  assizes,  and  condemned  to  ten  years'  penal  ser- 
vitude ;  but  he  only  did  half  his  time,  for  they  let  him  off  the 
rest  of  the  sentence  ;  he  came  back  from  the  hulks  in  1827. 
He  owes  his  life  to  M.  le  Curd,  who  persuaded  him  to  give 
himself  up.  Judged  by  default,  and  sentenced  to  death,  they 
would  have  caught  him  sooner  or  later,  and  he  would  have 
been  in  a  bad  way.  M.  Bonnet  went  out  to  look  for  him  at 
the  risk  of  his  life.  Nobody  knows  what  he  said  to  Farra- 
besche ;  they  were  alone  for  a  couple  of  days ;  on  the  third 
he  brought  Farrabesche  back  to  Tulle,  and  there  he  gave  him- 
self up.  M.  Bonnet  went  to  see  a  clever  lawyer,  and  got  him 
to  take  up  Farrabesche's  case ;  and  Farrabesche  came  off  with 
ten  years  in  jail.  M.  le  Curd  used  to  go  to  see  him  while  he 
was  in  prison  ;  and  that  fellow  yonder,  who  was  a  terror  to 
the  whole  countryside,  grew  as  meek  as  any  maid,  and  let 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONTAGNAC.  157 

them  take  him* off  to  prison  quietly.  When  he  came  out 
again,  he  settled  down  hereabouts  under  M.  le  Cure's  direc- 
tion. People  mind  what  they  say  to  him ;  he  always  goes  on 
Sundays  and  holidays  to  the  services  and  to  mass.  He  has  a 
seat  in  the  church  along  with  the  rest  of  us,  but  he  always 
keeps  by  himself  close  to  the  wall.  He  takes  the  sacrament 
from  time  to  time,  but  at  the  communion-table  he  keeps 
apart  too." 

'*  And  this  man  has  killed  another  man  !  " 

*'  One ?"  asked  Colorat ;  "he  has  killed  a  good  many,  he 
has  !      But  he  is  not  a  bad  sort  for  all  that." 

**Is  it  possible?  "  cried  Veronique,  and  in  her  amazement 
she  let  the  bridle  fall  on  the  horse's  neck. 

The  head  forester  asked  nothing  better  than  to  tell  the  tale. 

"  You  see,  madame,"  he  said,  "  Farrabesche  maybe  was  in 
the  right  at  bottom.  He  was  the  last  of  the  Farrabesches,  an 
old  family  in  the  Correze ;  aye,  yes !  His  eldest  brother, 
Captain  Farrabesche,  was  killed  just  ten  years  before  in  Italy, 
at  Montenotte ;  only  twenty-two  he  was,  and  a  captain ! 
That  is  what  you  might  call  bad  luck,  now,  isn't  it  ?  And  he 
had  a  little  book-learning  too ;  he  could  read  and  write,  and 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  be  a  general.  They  were  sorry 
at  home  when  he  died,  as  well  they  might  be,  indeed  !  I  was 
in  the  army  with  The  Other*  then;  and  I  heard  talk  of  his 
death.  Oh  !  Captain  Farrabesche  fell  gloriously ;  he  saved 
the  army,  he  did,  and  the  Little  Corporal  !  I  was  serving  at 
that  time  under  General  Steingel,  a  German — that  is  to  say, 
an  Alsatian — a  fine  soldier  he  was,  but  shortsighted,  and 
that  was  how  he  came  by  his  end,  some  time  after  Captain 
Farrabesche's.  The  youngest  boy,  that  is,  the  one  yonder,  was 
just  six  years  old  when  he  heard  them  talking  about  his  big 
brother's  death.  The  second  brother  went  into  the  army  too, 
but  he  went  as  a  private  soldier;  and  died  a  sergeant,  first 
regiment  of  the  Guard,  a  fine  post,  at  the  battle  of  Austerlitz, 
*  V Autre,  viz.,  Napoleon. 


158  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

where,  you  see,  madarae,  they  manoeuvred  us  all  as  smoothly 
as  if  it  had  been  review  day  at  the  Tuileries.  I  was  there 
myself.  Oh  !  I  was  lucky ;  I  went  through  it  all,  and  never 
came  in  for  a  single  wound.  Well,  then,  our  Farrabesche,  the 
youngest,  brave  though  he  was,  took  it  into  his  head  that  he 
would  not  go  for  a  soldier.  And  'tis  a  fact,  the  army  did  not 
suit  that  family.  Wlien  i\iQ  sous-prefet  \]ZXi\^d.  him  in  i8ii, 
he  took  to  the  woods;  a  '  refractory  conscript,'  eh!  that's 
what  they  used  to  call  them.  Thereupon  a  gang  of  chauffeurs 
got  hold  of  him  by  fair  means  or  foul,  and  he  took  to  warm- 
ing people's  feet  at  last !  You  understand  that  no  one  except 
M.  le  Cure  knows  what  he  did  along  with  those  rascals,  ask- 
ing their  pardon  !  Many  a  brush  he  had  with  the  gendarmes, 
and  the  regular  troops  as  well !  First  and  last  he  has  seen 
seven  skirmishes." 

"People  say  that  he  killed  two  soldiers  and  three  gend- 
armes !  "  put  in  Champion. 

"  Who  is  to  know  how  many?"  Colorat  answered.  "  He 
did  not  tell  them.  At  last,  madame,  all  the  others  were 
caught ;  but  he,  an  active  young  fellow,  knowing  the  country 
as  he  did,  always  got  away.  That  gang  of  chauffeurs  used  to 
hang  on  the  outskirts  of  Brives  and  Tulle,  and  they  would 
often  come  over  here  to  lie  low,  because  Farrabesche  knew 
places  where  they  could  hide  easily.  After  1814  nobody 
troubled  about  him  any  more,  the  conscription  was  abolished  ; 
but  he  had  to  spend  the  year  181 5  in  the  woods.  As  he  could 
not  sit  down  with  his  arms  folded  and  live,  he  helped  once 
more  to  stop  a  coach  down  below  yonder  in  the  ravine  ;  but 
in  the  end  he  took  M.  le  Curd's  advice,  and  gave  himself  up. 
It  was  not  easy  to  find  witnesses ;  nobody  dared  give  evidence 
against  him.  Then  M.  le  Curd  and  his  lawyer  worked  so 
hard  for  him  that  they  let  him  off  with  ten  years.  He  was 
lucky  after  being  a  chauffeur,  for  a  chauffeur  he  was." 

♦*  But  what  is  a  chauffeur  ? ' ' 

"  If  you  like,  madame,  I  will  just  tell  you  the  sort  of  thing 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONTEGNAC.  159 

they  did,  by  all  that  I  can  make  out  from  one  and  another,  for 
you  will  understand  that  I  was  never  a  chauffeur  myself.  It 
was  not  nice,  but  necessity  knows  no  law.  It  was  like  this : 
if  they  suspected  some  farmer  or  landowner  of  having  money 
in  his  possession,  seven  or  eight  of  them  would  drop  in  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  and  they  would  light  a  fire  and  have 
supper  there  and  then ;  when  supper  was  over,  if  the  master 
of  the  house  would  not  give  them  as  much  money  as  Ihey 
asked,  they  would  tie  his  feet  up  to  the  pot-hook  at  the  back 
of  the  fire,  and  would  not  let  him  go  until  they  had  what  they 
asked  for.  That  was  all.  They  came  in  masks.  With  so 
many  expeditions,  there  were  a  few  mishaps.  Lord  !  yes ; 
there  are  obstinate  folk  and  stingy  people  everywhere.  There 
was  a  farmer  once,  old  Cochegrue,  a  regular  skinflint  he  was, 
he  let  them  burn  his  feet ;  and,  well,  the  man  died  of  it. 
There  was  M.  David's  wife  too,  not  far  from  Brives ;  she  died 
afterwards  of  the  fright  they  gave  her,  simply  seeing  them  tie 
her  husband's  feet.  '  Just  give  them  what  you  have  ! '  she 
said  to  him  as  she  went.  He  would  not,  and  she  showed 
them  the  hiding-place.  For  five  years  the  chauffeurs  were  the 
terror  of  the  countryside  ;  but  get  this  well  into  your  pate — I 
beg  pardon,  madame  ! — that  more  than  one  of  them  belonged 
to  good  families,  and  that  sort  of  people  are  not  the  ones  to 
let  themselves  be  nabbed." 

Mme.  Graslin  listened  and  made  no  reply.  There  was  a 
moment's  pause ;  then  young  Champion,  eager  to  interest  his 
mistress  in  his  turn,  was  anxious  to  tell  what  he  knew  of 
Farrabesche. 

"Madame  ought  to  hear  the  whole  truth  of  the  matter. 
Farrabesche  has  not  his  match  on  horseback  or  afoot.  He 
will  fell  an  ox  with  a  blow  of  his  fist  !  He  can  carry  seven- 
hundred  weight,  that  he  can  !  and  there  is  not  a  better  shot 
anywhere.  When  I  was  a  little  chap  they  used  to  tell  me 
tales  about  Farrabesche.  One  day  he  and  three  of  his  com- 
rades were  surprised  ;  they  fought  till  one  was  killed  and  two 


160  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

were  wounded ;  well,  and  good,  Farrabesche  saw  that  he  was 
caught ;  bah !  he  jumps  on  a  gendarme's  horse  behind  the 
man,  claps  spurs  to  the  animal,  which  bolts  off  at  a  furious 
gallop  and  is  out  of  sight,  he  gripping  that  gendarme  round 
the  waist  all  the  time ;  he  hugged  the  man  so  tight  that  afier 
a  while  he  managed  to  fling  him  off  and  ride  single  in  the 
saddle,  so  he  escaped  and  came  by  a  horse.  And  he  had  the 
impudence  to  sell  it  directly  afterwards  ten  leagues  on  the 
other  side  of  Limoges.  He  lay  in  hiding  for  three  months 
after  that  exploit,  and  no  one  could  find  him.  They  offered  a 
reward  of  a  hundred  louis  to  any  one  who  would  betray  him." 
"Another  time,"  added  Colorat,  "  as  to  those  hundred 
louis  put  on  his  head  by  the  prefect  at  Tulle,  Farrabesche  put 
a  cousin  of  his  in  the  way  of  earning  it — Giriex  it  was,  over 
at  Vizay.  His  cousin  denounced  him,  and  seemed  as  if  he 
meant  to  give  him  up.  Oh  !  he  actually  gave  him  up ;  and 
very  glad  the  gendarmes  were  to  take  him  to  Tulle.  But  he 
did  not  go  far ;  they  had  to  put  him  in  the  prison  at  Lubersac, 
and  he  got  away  the  very  first  night,  by  way  of  a  hole  made 
by  one  of  the  gang,  one  Gabilleau,  a  deserter  from  the  17th, 
executed  at  Tulle,  who  was  moved  away  the  night  before  he 
expected  to  escape.  A  pretty  character  Farrabesche  gained 
by  these  adventures.  The  troop  had  trusty  friends,  you  know. 
And,  besides,  people  liked  the  chauffeurs.  Lord,  they  were 
quite  different  then  from  what  they  are  nowadays,  jolly  fellows 
every  one  of  them,  that  spent  their  money  like  princes. 
Just  imagine  it,  madame ;  finds  the  gendarmes  on  his  track 
one  evening,  does  he  ?  Well,  he  slipped  through  their  fingers 
that  time  by  lying  twenty-four  hours  in  a  pond  in  a  farmyard, 
drawing  his  breath  through  a  hole  in  the  straw  at  the  edge  of 
a  dung-heap.  What  did  a  little  discomfort  like  that  matter  to 
him  when  he  had  spent  whole  nights  up  among  the  little 
branches  at  the  very  top  of  a  tree  where  a  sparrow  could 
hardly  hold,  watching  the  soldiers  looking  for  him,  passing 
and  repassing  below.     Farrabesche  was  one  of  the  five  or  six 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONTi:GNAC.  161 

chauffeurs  whom  they  never  could  catch ;  for  as  he  was  a 
fellow-countryman,  and  joined  the  gang  perforce  (for,  after 
all,  he  only  took  to  the  woods  to  escape  the  conscription),  all 
the  women  took  his  part,  and  that  counts  for  much." 

"So  Farrabesche  has  really  killed  several  men,"  Mme. 
Graslin  said  again. 

"Certainly,"  Colorat  replied;  "  they  even  say  that  it  was 
he  who  murdered  the  traveler  in  the  coach  in  1812  ;  but  the 
courier  and  postillion,  the  only  witnesses  who  could  have 
identified  him,  were  dead  when  he  came  up  for  trial." 

"And  the  robbery?"  asked  Mme.  Graslin. 

"Oh!  They  took  all  there  was ;  but  the  five-and-twenty 
thousand  francs  which  they  found  belonged  to  the  govern- 
ment." 

For  another  league  Mme.  Graslin  rode  on  in  silence.  The 
sun  had  set,  and  in  the  moonlight  the  gray  plain  looked  like 
the  open  sea.  Once  or  twice  Champion  and  Colorat  looked 
at  Mme.  Graslin,  for  her  silence  made  them  uneasy,  and  both 
were  greatly  disturbed  to  see  that  her  eyes  were  red  with  much 
weeping  and  full  of  tears,  which  fell  drop  by  drop  and  glit- 
tered on  her  cheeks. 

"Oh!  don't  be  sorry  for  him,  madame,"  said  Colorat. 
"The  fellow  led  a  jolly  life,  and  has  had  pretty  sweethearts. 
And  if  the  police  keep  an  eye  on  him  now,  he  is  protected  by 
M.  le  Cure's  esteem  and  friendship ;  for  he  repented,  and  in 
the  convict's  prison  behaved  in  the  most  exemplary  way. 
Everybody  knows  that  he  is  as  good  as  the  best  among  us ; 
only  he  is  so  proud,  he  has  no  mind  to  lay  himself  open  to  any 
slight,  but  he  lives  peaceably  and  does  good  after  his  fashion. 
Over  the  other  side  of  the  Living  Rock  he  has  ten  acres  or 
so  of  young  saplings  of  his  own  planting ;  and  when  he  sees 
a  place  for  a  tree  in  the  forest,  he  will  stick  one  of  them  in. 
Then  he  lops  off  the  dead  branches,  and  collects  the  wood, 
and  does  it  up  in  faggots  ready  for  poor  people.  And  the 
poor  people,  knowing  that  they  can  have  firewood  all  ready 
11 


162  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

for  the  asking,  go  to  him  instead  of  helping  themselves  and 
damaging  your  woods.  So  if  he  still  '  warms  people's  feet,' 
as  you  may  say,  it  does  them  good  now.  Parrabesche  is  fond 
of  your  forest  j  he  looks  after  it  as  if  it  were  his  own." 

"And   yet   he  lives! quite   alone."      Mme.    Graslin 

hastily  added  the  last  two  words. 

"Asking  your  pardon,  madame,  no.  He  is  bringing  up  a 
little  lad;  going  fifteen  now  he  is,"  said  Maurice  Champion. 

"Faith,  yes,  that  he  is,"  Colorat  remarked,  "for  La 
Curieux  had  that  child  a  good  while  before  Farrabesche  gave 
himself  up." 

"  Is  it  his  son  ?  "  asked  Mme.  Graslin. 

"Well,  every  one  thinks  so." 

"  And  why  did  he  not  marry  the  girl  ?  " 

"Why?  Because  they  would  have  caught  him!  And, 
besides,  when  La  Curieux  knew  that  he  was  condemned,  she 
left  the  neighborhood,  poor  thing." 

"Was  she  pretty?" 

"Oh,  my  mother  says  that  she  was  very  much  like — dear 
me!  another  girl  who  left  the  place  too — very  much  like 
Denise  Tascheron." 

"  Was  he  loved  ?  "  asked  Mme.  Graslin. 

"Bah!  yes,  because  he  was  di  chauffeur  /^^  said  Colorat. 
"  The  women  always  fall  in  love  with  anything  out  of  the 
way.  But  for  all  that,  nothing  astonished  people  hereabouts 
so  much  as  this  love  affair.  Catherine  Curieux  was  a  good 
girl  who  lived  like  a  virgin  saint ;  she  was  looked  on  as  a  par- 
agon of  virtue  in  her  neighborhood  over  at  Vizay,  a  large 
village  in  the  Correze,  on  the  boundary  of  two  departments. 
Her  father  and  mother  were  tenants  of  M.  Brezac's.  Cathe- 
rine Curieux  was  quite  seventeen  years  old  at  the  time  of 
Farrabesche's  sentence.  The  Farrabesches  were  an  old  family 
out  of  the  same  district,  but  they  settled  on  the  Mont^gnac 
lands  ;  they  had  the  largest  farm  in  the  village.  Farrabesche's 
father  and  mother  are  dead  now,  and   La  Curieux' s  three 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  163 

sisters  are  married ;  one  lives  at  Aubusson,  one  at  Limoges, 
and  one  at  Saint-Leonard." 

"  Do  you  think  that  Farrabesche  knows  where  Catherine 
is?"  asked  Mme.  Graslin. 

"If  he  knew,  he  would  break  his  bounds.     Oh  !  he  would 

go  to  her As  soon  as  he  came  back  he  asked  her  father 

and  mother  (through  M.  Bonnet)  for  the  child.  La  Curieux's 
father  and  mother  were  taking  care  of  the  child ;  M.  Bonnet 
persuaded  them  to  give  him  up  to  Farrabesche." 

"  Does  nobody  know  what  became  of  her?  " 

"  Bah  !  "  said  Colorat.  "  The  lass  thought  herself  ruined, 
she  was  afraid  to  stop  in  the  place !  She  went  to  Paris. 
What  does  she  do  there  ?  That  is  the  rub.  As  for  looking 
for  her  in  Paris,  you  might  as  well  try  to  find  a  marble  among 
the  flints  there  in  the  plain." 

Colorat  pointed  to  the  plain  of  Montegnac  as  he  spoke. 
By  this  time  Mme.  Graslin  was  only  a  few  paces  from  the 
great  gateway  of  the  chateau.  Mme.  Sauviat,  in  anxiety,  was 
waiting  there  for  her  with  Aline  and  the  servants  j  they  did 
not  know  what  to  think  of  so  long  an  absence. 

"  Well,"  said  Mme.  Sauviat,  as  she  helped  her  daughter  to 
dismount,  "you  must  be  horribly  tired." 

"  No,  dear  mother,"  Mme.  Graslin  answered,  in  an  un- 
steady voice,  and  Mme.  Sauviat,  looking  at  her  daughter,  saw 
that  she  had  been  weeping  for  a  long  time. 

Mme.  Graslin  went  into  the  house  with  Aline,  her  confiden- 
tial servant,  and  shut  herself  into  her  room.  She  would  not 
see  her  mother;  and  when  Mme.  Sauviat  tried  to  enter,  Aline 
met  the  old  Auvergnate  with  "  Madame  is  asleep." 

The  next  morning  Veronique  set  out  on  horseback,  with 
Maurice  as  her  sole  guide.  She  took  the  way  by  which  they 
had  returned  the  evening  before,  so  as  to  reach  the  Living 
Rock  as  quickly  as  might  be.  As  they  climbed  up  the  ravine 
which  separates  the  last  ridge  in  the  forest  from  the  actual 


164  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

summit  of  the  mountain  (for  the  Living  Rock,  seen  from  the 
plain,  seems  to  stand  alone),  Veronique  bade  Maurice  show 
her  the  way  to  Farrabesche's  cabin  and  wait  with  the  horses 
until  she  came  back.  She  meant  to  go  alone.  Maurice  went 
with  her  as  far  as  a  pathway  which  turned  off  towards  the 
opposite  side  of  the  Living  Rock,  farthest  from  the  plain,  and 
pointed  out  the  thatched  roof  of  a  cottage  half-hidden  on 
the  mountain  side ;  below  it  lay  the  nursery-ground  of  which 
Colorat  had  spoken. 

It  was  almost  noon.  A  thin  streak  of  smoke  rising  from 
the  cottage  chimney  guided  Veronique,  who  soon  reached  the 
place,  but  would  not  show  herself  at  first.  At  the  sight  of 
the  little  dwelling,  and  the  garden  about  it,  with  its  fence  of 
dead  thorns,  she  stood  for  a  few  moments  lost  in  thoughts 
known  to  her  alone.  Several  acres  of  grass  land,  enclosed  by 
a  quickset  hedge,  wound  away  beyond  the  garden ;  the  low- 
spreading  branches  of  apple  and  pear  and  plum  trees  were 
visible  here  and  there  in  the  field.  Above  the  house,  on  the 
sandier  soil  of  the  high  mountain  slopes,  there  rose  a  splendid 
grove  of  tall  chestnut  trees,  their  topmost  leaves  turned  yellow 
and  sere. 

Mme.  Graslin  pushed  open  the  crazy  wicket  which  did  duty 
as  a  gate,  and  saw  before  her  the  shed,  the  little  yard,  and  all 
the  picturesque  and  living  details  of  the  dwellings  of  the  poor. 
Something  surely  of  the  grace  of  the  open  fields  hovers  about 
them.  Who  is  there  that  is  not  moved  by  the  revelation  of 
lowly,  almost  vegetative  lives — the  clothes  drying  on  the 
hedge,  the  rope  of  onions  hanging  from  the  roof,  the  iron 
cooking  pots  set  out  in  the  sun,  the  wooden  bench  hidden 
among  the  honeysuckle  leaves,  the  houseleeks  that  grow  on 
the  ridges  of  almost  every  thatched  hovel  in  France  ? 

Veronique  found  it  impossible  to  appear  unannounced  in 
her  keeper's  cottage,  for  two  fine  hunting-dogs  began  to  bark 
as  soon  as  they  heard  the  rustle  of  her  riding  habit  on  the 
dead  leaves ;  she  gathered  up  her  skirts  on  her  arm,  and  went 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  165 

towards  the  house.  Farrabesche  and  the  boy  were  sitting  on 
a  wooden  bench  outside.  Both  rose  to  their  feet  and  uncov- 
ered respectfully,  but  without  a  trace  of  servility. 

**  I  have  been  told  that  you  are  seeing  after  my  interests," 
said  V6ronique,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  lad;  "  so  I  deter- 
mined to  see  your  cottage  and  nursery  of  saplings  for  myself, 
and  to  ask  you  about  some  improvements." 

•*I  am  at  your  service,  madame,"  replied  Farrabesche. 

V6ronique  was  admiring  the  lad.  It  was  a  charming  face ; 
somewhat  sunburned  and  brown,  but  in  shape  a  faultless  oval ; 
the  outlines  of  the  forehead  were  delicately  fine,  the  orange- 
colored  eyes  exceedingly  bright  and  alert ;  the  long  dark  hair, 
parted  on  the  forehead,  fell  upon  either  side  of  the  brow. 
Taller  than  most  boys  of  his  age,  he  was  very  nearly  five  feet 
high.  His  trousers  were  of  the  same  coarse  brown  linen  as 
his  shirt ;  he  wore  a  threadbare  waistcoat  of  rough  blue  cloth 
with  horn  buttons,  a  short  jacket  of  the  material  facetiously 
described  as  "Maurienne  velvet,"  in  which  Savoyards  are 
wont  to  dress,  and  a  pair  of  iron-bound  shoes  on  his  otherwise 
bare  feet  to  complete  the  costume.  His  father  was  dressed  in 
the  same  fashion  ;  but  instead  of  the  little  lad's  brown  woolen 
cap,  Farrabesche  wore  the  wide-brimmed  peasant's  hat.  In 
spite  of  its  quick  intelligence,  the  child's  face  bore  the  look 
of  gravity  (evidently  unforced)  peculiar  to  young  creatures 
brought  up  in  solitude  ;  he  must  have  put  himself  in  harmony 
with  the  silence  and  the  life  of  the  forest.  Indeed,  in  both 
Farrabesche  and  his  son  the  physical  side  of  their  natures 
seemed  to  be  the  most  highly  developed ;  they  possessed  the 
peculiar  faculties  of  the  savage — the  keen  sight,  the  alertness, 
the  complete  mastery  of  the  body  as  an  instrument,  the  quick 
hearing,  the  signs  of  activity  and  intelligent  skill.  No  sooner 
did  the  boy's  eyes  turn  to  his  father  than  Mme.  Graslin 
divined  that  here  was  the  limitless  affection  in  which  the 
promptings  of  natural  instinct  and  deliberate  thought  were 
confirmed  by  the  most  effectual  happiness. 


166  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"  Is  this  the  child  of  whom  I  have  heard  ?  "  asked  V6ron- 
ique,  indicating  the  lad. 

"  Yes,  madame." 

Vdroniquc  signed  to  Farrabesche  to  come  a  few  paces  away. 
"But  have  you  taken  no  steps  towards  finding  his  mother?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Madame  does  not  know,  of  course,  that  I  am  not  allowed 
to  go  beyond  the  bounds  of  the  commune  where  I  am  liv- 
ing  " 

**  And  have  you  never  heard  of  her  ?  " 

"  When  my  time  was  out,"  he  said,  "  the  commissary  paid 
over  to  me  the  sum  of  a  thousand  francs,  which  had  been 
sent  me,  a  little  at  a  time,  every  quarter ;  the  rules  would  not 
allow  me  to  have  it  until  I  came  out.  I  thought  that  no  one 
but  Catherine  would  have  thought  of  me,  as  it  was  not  M. 
Bonnet  who  sent  it ;  so  I  am  keeping  the  money  for  Benja- 
min." 

"And  how  about  Catherine's  relations?" 

"  They  thought  no  more  about  her  after  she  went  away.  Be- 
sides, they  did  their  part  by  looking  after  the  child." 

Veronique  turned  to  go  towards  the  house. 

"Very  well,  Farrabesche,"  she  said  ;  "  I  will  have  inquiry 
made,  so  as  to  make  sure  that  Catherine  is  still  living,  and 
where  she  is,  and  what  kind  of  life  she  is  leading " 

"  Madame,  whatever  she  may  be,  I  shall  look  upon  it  as 
good  fortune  to  have  her  for  my  wife,"  the  man  cried  in  a 
softened  tone.  "It  is  for  her  to  show  reluctance,  not  for  me. 
Our  marriage  will  legitimate  the  poor  boy,  who  has  no  suspi- 
cion yet  of  how  he  stands." 

The  look  in  the  father's  eyes  told  the  tale  of  the  life  these 
two  outcasts  led  in  their  voluntary  exile ;  they  were  all  in  all 
to  each  other,  like  two  fellow-countrymen  in  the  midst  of  a 
desert. 

"  So  you  love  Catherine? "  asked  Veronique. 

"  It  is  not  so  much  that  I  love  her,  madame,"  he  answered, 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONTAgNAC.  167 

"  as  that,  placed  as  I  am,  she  is  the  one  woman  in  the  world 
for  me." 

Mme.  Graslin  turned  swiftly,  and  went  as  far  as  the  chestnut 
trees,  as  if  some  pang  had  shot  through  her.  The  keeper 
thought  that  this  was  some  whim  of  hers,  and  did  not  ven- 
ture to  follow.  For  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  sat, 
apparently  engaged  in  looking  out  over  the  landscape.  She 
could  see  all  that  part  of  the  forest  which  lay  along  the  side 
of  the  valley,  with  the  torrent  in  the  bottom  ;  it  was  dry  now, 
and  full  of  boulders,  a  sort  of  huge  ditch  shut  in  between  the 
forest-covered  mountains  above  Montegnac  and  another 
parallel  range,  these  last  hills  being  steep  though  low,  and  so 
bare  that  there  was  scarcely  so  much  as  a  starveling  tree  here 
and  there  to  crown  the  slopes,  where  a  few  rather  melancholy- 
looking  birches,  juniper  bushes,  and  briars  were  trying  to 
grow.  This  second  range  belonged  to  a  neighboring  estate, 
and  lay  in  the  department  of  the  Correze  ;  indeed,  the  cross- 
road which  meanders  along  the  winding  valley  is  the  bound- 
ary line  of  the  arrondissement  of  Montegnac,  and  also  of  the 
two  estates.  The  opposite  side  of  the  valley  beyond  the  tor- 
rent was  quite  unsheltered  and  barren  enough.  It  was  a  sort 
of  long  wall  with  a  slope  of  fine  woodland  behind  it,  and  a 
complete  contrast  in  its  bleakness  to  the  side  of  the  mountain 
on  which  Farrabesche's  cottage  stood.  Gnarled  and  twisted 
forms  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other  shapely  growths  and 
delicate  curving  lines ;  on  the  one  side  the  dreary,  unchanging 
silence  of  a  sloping  desert,  held  in  place  by  blocks  of  stone 
and  bare,  denuded  rocks,  and  on  the  other,  the  contrasts  of 
green  among  the  trees.  Many  of  them  were  leafless  now,  but 
the  fine  variegated  tree-trunks  stood  up  straight  and  tall  on 
each  ledge,  and  the  branches  waved  as  the  wind  stirred 
through  them.  A  few  of  them,  the  oaks,  elms,  beeches,  and 
chestnuts  which  held  out  longer  against  the  autumn  than  the 
rest,  still  retained  their  leaves — golden,  or  bronze,  or  purple. 

In  the  direction  of  Montegnac  the  valley  opens  out  so 


leg  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

widely  that  the  two  sides  describe  a  vast  horsehoe.  Veroniquc, 
with  her  back  against  a  chestnut  tree,  could  see  glen  after  glen 
arranged  like  the  stages  of  an  amphitheatre,  the  topmost 
crests  of  the  trees  rising  one  above  the  other  in  rows  like  the 
heads  of  spectators.  On  the  other  side  of  the  ridge  lay  her 
own  park,  in  which,  at  a  later  time,  this  beautiful  hillside  was 
included.  Near  Farrabesche's  cottage  the  valley  grew  nar- 
rower and  narrower,  till  it  closed  in  as  a  gully  scarce  a  hun- 
dred feet  across. 

The  beauty  of  the  view  over  which  Mme.  Graslin's  eyes 
wandered,  heedlessly  at  first,  soon  recalled  her  to  herself. 
She  went  back  to  the  cottage,  where  the  father  and  son  were 
standing  in  silence,  making  no  attempt  to  explain  the  strange 
departure  of  their  mistress.  V^ronique  looked  at  the  house. 
It  was  more  solidly  built  than  the  thatched  roof  had  led  her 
to  suppose ;  doubtless  it  had  been  left  to  go  to  ruin  at  the 
time  when  the  Navarreins  ceased  to  trouble  themselves  about 
the  estate.  No  sport,  no  gamekeepers.  But  though  no  one 
had  lived  in  it  for  a  century,  the  walls  held  good  in  spite  of 
the  ivy  and  climbing  plants  which  clung  about  them  on  every 
side.  Farrabesche  himself  had  thatched  the  roof  when  he 
received  permission  to  live  there ;  he  had  laid  the  stone-flags 
on  the  floor,  and  brought  in  such  furniture  as  there  was. 

V6ronique  went  inside  the  cottage.  Two  beds,  such  as  the 
peasants  use,  met  her  eyes;  there  was  a  large  cupboard  of 
walnut-wood,  a  hutch  for  bread,  a  dresser,  a  table,  three 
chairs,  a  few  brown  earthen  platters  on  the  shelves  of  the 
dresser ;  in  fact,  all  the  necessary  household  gear.  A  couple 
of  guns  and  a  game-bag  hung  above  the  mantle-shelf.  It  went 
to  Veronique's  heart  to  see  how  many  things  the  father  had 
made  for  the  little  one ;  there  was  a  toy  man-of-war,  a  fishing 
smack,  and  a  carved  wooden  cup,  a  chest  wonderfully  orna- 
mented, a  little  box  decorated  with  mosaic  work  in  straw,  a 
beautifully-wrought  crucifix  and  rosary.  The  rosary  was  made 
of  plum-stones ;  on  each  a  head  had  been  carved  with  wonder- 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  169 

ful  skill — Jesus  Christ,  the  Ai)ostles,  the  Madonna,  St.  John 
the  Baptist,  St,  Anne,  the  two  Magdalens. 

"  I  did  it  to  amuse  the  child  during  the  long  winter  even- 
ings," he  said,  with  something  of  apology  in  his  tone. 

Jessamine  and  climbing  roses  covered  the  front  of  the 
house,  and  broke  into  blossom  about  the  upper  windows. 
Farrabesche  used  the  first  floor  as  a  storeroom;  he  kept 
poultry,  ducks,  and  a  couple  of  pigs,  and  bought  nothing  but 
bread,  salt,  sugar,  and  such  groceries  as  they  needed.  Neither 
he  nor  the  lad  drank  wine, 

"Everything  that  I  have  seen  and  heard  of  you,"  Mme. 
Graslin  said  at  last,  turning  to  Farrabesche,  "  has  led  me  to 
take  an  interest  in  you  which  shall  not  come  to  nothing." 

"This  is  M.  Bonnet's  doing,  I  know  right  well !  "  cried 
Farrabesche  with  touching  fervor. 

"(You  are  mistaken  ;  M.  le  Cure  has  said  nothing  to  me  of 
you  as  yet;  chance  or  God,  it  may  be,  has  brought  it  all 
about." 

"Yes,  madame,  it  is  God's  doing;  God  alone  can  work 
wonders  for  such  a  wretch  as  I. " 

"  If  your  life  has  been  a  wretched  one,"  said  Mme.  Graslin, 
in  tones  so  low  that  they  did  not  reach  the  boy  (a  piece  of 
womanly  feeling  which  touched  Farrabesche),  "  your  repent- 
ance, your  conduct,  and  M.  Bonnet's  good  opinion  should  go 
far  to  retrieve  it.  I  have  given  orders  that  the  buildings  on 
the  large  farm  near  the  chateau  which  M.  Graslin  planned  are 
to  be  finished  ;  you  shall  be  my  steward  there ;  you  will  find 
scope  for  your  energies  and  employment  for  your  son.  The 
public  prosecutor  at  Limoges  shall  be  informed  of  your  case, 
and  I  will  engage  that  the  humiliating  restrictions  which  make 
your  life  a  burden  to  you  shall  be  removed." 

Farrabesche  dropped  down  on  his  knees  as  if  thunderstruck 
at  the  words  which  opened  out  a  prospect  of  the  realization  of 
hopes  hitherto  cherished  in  vain.  He  kissed  the  hem  of  Mme. 
Graslin's  riding  habit ;  he  kissed  her  feet.     Benjamin  saw  the 


170  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

tears  in  his  father's  eyes,  and  began  to  sob  without  knowing 

why. 

"  Do  not  kneel,  Farrabesche,"  said  Mme.  Graslin  j  "you 
do  not  know  how  natural  it  is  that  I  should  do  for  you  these 

things  that  I  have  promised  to  do Did  you  not  plant 

those  trees?"  she  added,  pointing  to  one  or  two  pitch-pines, 
Norway  pines,  firs,  and  larches  at  the  base  of  the  arid,  thirsty 
hillside  opposite. 

"Yes,  madame." 

"  Then  is  the  soil  better  just  there?" 

**  The  water  is  always  wearing  the  rocks  away,  so  there  is  a 
little  light  soil  washed  down  on  to  your  land,  and  I  took  ad- 
vantage of  it,  for  all  the  valley  down  below  the  road  belongs 
to  you  ;  the  road  is  the  boundary  line." 

"  Then  does  a  good  deal  of  water  flow  down  the  length  of 
the  valley?" 

"  Oh  !  in  a  few  days,  madame,  if  the  weather  sets  in  rainy, 
you  will  maybe  hear  the  roaring  of  the  torrent  over  at  the 
chateau  !  but  even  then  it  is  nothing  compared  with  what  it 
will  be  when  the  snow  melts.  All  the  water  from  the  whole 
mountain  side  there  at  the  back  of  your  park  and  gardens 
flows  into  it ;  in  fact,  all  the  streams  hereabouts  flow  down  to 
the  torrent,  and  the  water  comes  down  like  a  deluge.  Luckily 
for  you,  the  tree-roots  on  your  side  of  the  valley  bind  the 
soil  together,  and  the  water  slips  off"  the  leaves,  for  the  fallen 
leaves  here  in  autumn  are  like  an  oilcloth  cover  for  the  land, 
or  it  would  all  be  washed  down  into  the  valley  bottom,  and 
the  bed  of  the  torrent  is  so  steep  that  I  doubt  whether  the 
soil  would  stop  there." 

"What  becomes  of  all  the  water?"  asked  Mme.  Graslin. 

Farrabesche  pointed  to  the  gully  which  seemed  to  shut  in 
the  valley  below  his  cottage. 

"  It  pours  out  over  a  chalky  bit  of  level  ground  that  sepa- 
rates Limousin  from  the  Correze,  and  there  it  lies  for  several 
months  in  stagnant  green  pools,  sinking  slowly  down  into  the 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  171 

soil.  That  is  how  the  common  came  to  be  so  unhealthy  that 
no  one  lives  there,  and  nothing  can  be  done  with  it.  No  kind 
of  cattle  will  pasture  on  the  reeds  and  rushes  in  those  brackish 
pools.  Perhaps  there  are  three  thousand  acres  of  it  altogether; 
it  is  the  common  land  of  three  parishes ;  but  it  is  just  like  the 
plain  of  Montegnac,  you  can  do  nothing  with  it.  And  down 
in  your  plain  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  sand  and  a  little 
soil  among  the  flints,  but  here  there  is  nothing  but  the  bare 
tufa." 

"  Send  for  the  horses ;  I  mean  to  see  all  this  for  myself." 

Mme.  Graslin  told  Benjamin  where  she  had  left  Maurice, 
and  the  lad  went  forthwith. 

"  They  tell  me  that  you  know  every  yard  of  this  country," 
Mme.  Graslin  continued;  "can  you  explain  to  me  how  it 
happens  that  no  water  flows  into  the  plain  of  Montegnac  from 
my  side  of  the  ridge  ?  there  is  not  the  smallest  torrent  there 
even  in  rainy  weather  or  in  the  time  of  the  melting  of  the 
snows." 

"Ah  !  madame,"  Farrabesche  answered,  "  M.  le  Cure,  who 
is  always  thinking  of  the  prosperity  of  Montegnac,  guessed  the 
cause,  but  had  not  proof  of  it.  Since  you  came  here,  he  told 
me  to  mark  the  course  of  every  runnel  in  every  little  valley. 
I  had  been  looking  at  the  lay  of  the  land  yesterday,  and  was 
on  my  way  back  when  I  had  the  honor  of  meeting  you  at  the 
base  of  the  Living  Rock,  I  heard  the  sound  of  horsehoofs, 
and  I  wanted  to  know  who  was  passing  this  way.  Madame, 
M.  Bonnet  is  not  only  a  saint,  he  is  a  man  of  science.  *  Far- 
rabesche,' said  he  (I  being  at  work  at  the  time  on  the  road 
which  the  commune  finished  up  to  the  chateau  for  you) — 
*  Farrabesche,  if  no  water  from  this  side  of  the  hill  reaches 
the  plain  below,  it  must  be  because  nature  has  some  sort  of 
drainage  arrangement  for  carrying  it  off"  elsewhere.'  Well, 
madame,  the  remark  is  so  simple  that  it  looks  downright  trite, 
as  if  any  child  might  have  made  it.  But  nobody  since  Mon- 
tegnac was  Montdgnac,  neither  great  lords,  nor  stewards,  nor 


172  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

keepers,  nor  rich,  nor  poor,  though  the  plain  lay  there  before 
their  eyes  with  nothing  growing  on  it  for  want  of  water, 
not  one  of  them  ever  thought  of  asking  what  became  of  the 
water  in  the  Gabon.  The  stagnant  water  gives  them  the  fever 
in  three  communes,  but  they  never  thought  of  looking  for  the 
remedy ;  and  I  myself  never  dreamed  of  it ;  it  took  a  man  of 
God  to  see  that " 

Farrabesche's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  spoke. 

**  The  discoveries  of  men  of  genius  are  all  so  simple,  that 
every  one  thinks  he  could  have  found  them  out,"  said  Mme. 
Graslin;  and  to  herself  she  added,  "But  there  is  this  grand 
thing  about  genius,  that  while  it  is  akin  to  all  others,  no  one 
resembles  it." 

"At  once  I  saw  what  M.  Bonnet  meant,"  Far  rabesche  went 
on.  **  He  had  not  to  use  a  lot  of  long  words  to  explain  my 
job  to  me.  To  make  the  thing  all  the  queerer,  madame,  all 
the  ridge  above  your  plain  (for  it  all  belongs  to  you)  is  full 
of  pretty  deep  cracks,  ravines,  and  gullies,  and  whatnot ;  but 
all  the  water  that  flows  down  the  valleys,  clefts,  ravines,  and 
gorges,  every  channel,  in  fact,  empties  itself  into  a  little  valley 
a  few  feet  lower  than  the  level  of  your  plain,  madame.  I 
know  the  cause  of  this  state  of  things  to-day,  and  here  it  is : 
There  is  a  sort  of  embankment  of  rock  (schist,  M.  Bonnet 
calls  it)  twenty  or  thirty  feet  thick,  which  runs  in  an  unbroken 
line  all  round  the  bases  of  the  hills  between  Mont^gnac  and 
the  Living  Rock.  The  earth  being  softer  than  the  stone,  has 
been  worn  away  and  been  hollowed  out ;  so,  naturally  the 
water  all  flows  round  into  the  Gabou,  eating  its  passage  out 
of  each  valley.  The  trees  and  thickets  and  brushwood  hide 
the  lay  of  the  land  ;  but  when  you  follow  the  streams  and  track 
their  passage,  it  is  easy  to  convince  yourself  of  the  facts.  In 
this  way  both  hillsides  drain  into  the  Gabou,  all  the  water  from 
this  side  that  we  see,  and  the  other  over  the  ridge  where  your 
park  lies,  as  well  as  from  the  rocks  opposite.  M.  le  Cur6 
thinks  that  this  state  of  things  would  work  its  own  cure  when 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  173 

the  water-courses  on  your  side  of  the  ridge  are  blocked  up  at 
the  mouth  by  the  rocks  and  soil  washed  down  from  above,  so 
that  they  raise  barriers  between  themselves  and  the  Gabou. 
When  that  time  comes  your  plain  will  be  flooded  in  turn  like 
the  common  land  you  are  just  about  to  see  ;  but  it  would  take 
hundreds  of  years  to  bring  that  about.  And,  besides,  is  it  a 
thing  to  wish  for,  madame?  Suppose  that  your  plain  of 
Montegnac  should  not  suck  up  all  that  water,  like  the  common 
land  here,  there  would  be  some  more  standing  pools  there  to 
poison  the  whole  country." 

"So  the  places  M.  le  Cure  pointed  out  to  me  a  few  days 
ago,  where  the  trees  are  still  green,  must  mark  the  natural 
channels  through  which  the  water  flows  down  into  the  Gabou?" 

"Yes,  madame.  There  are  three  hills  between  the  Living 
Rock  and  Montegnac,  and  consequently  there  are  three  water- 
courses, and  the  streams  that  flow  down  them,  banked  in  by 
the  schist  barrier,  turn  to  the  Gabou,  That  belt  of  wood  still 
green,  round  the  base  of  the  hills,  looks  as  if  it  were  part  of 
your  plain,  but  it  marks  the  course  of  the  channel  which  was 
there,  as  M.  le  Cure  guessed  it  would  be." 

"  The  misfortune  will  soon  turn  to  a  blessing  for  Mon- 
tegnac," said  Mme.  Graslin,  with  deep  conviction  in  her 
tones.  "And  since  you  have  been  the  first  instrument,  you 
shall  share  in  the  work ;  you  shall  find  active  and  willing 
workers,  for  hard  work  and  perseverance  must  make  up  for  the 
money  which  we  lack." 

Mme.  Graslin  had  scarcely  finished  the  sentence  when  Ben- 
jamin and  Maurice  came  up;  she  caught  at  her  horse's  bridle, 
and,  by  a  gesture,  bade  Farrabesche  mount  Maurice's  horse. 

"Now  bring  me  to  the  place  where  the  water  drowns  the 
common  land,"  she  said. 

"  It  will  be  so  much  the  better  that  you  should  go,  madame, 
since  that  the  lale  M.  Graslin,  acting  on  M.  Bonnet's  advice, 
bought  about  three  hundred  acres  of  land  at  the  mouth  of  the 
gully  where  the  mud  has  been  deposited  by  the  torrent,  so 


174  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

that  over  a  certain  area  there  is  some  depth  of  rich  soil. 
Madame  will  see  the  other  side  of  the  Living  Rock  ;  there  is 
some  magnificent  timber  there,  and  doubtless  M.  Graslin 
would  have  had  a  farm  on  the  spot.  The  best  situation  would 
be  a  place  where  the  little  stream  that  rises  near  my  house 
sinks  into  the  ground  again;  it  might  be  turned  to  advan- 
tage." 

Farrabesche  led  the  way,  and  Vdronique  followed  down  a 
steep  path  towards  a  spot  where  the  two  sides  of  the  gully 
drew  in,  and  then  separated  sharply  to  east  and  west,  as  if 
divided  by  some  earthquake  shock.  The  gully  was  about  sixty 
feet  across.  Tall  grasses  were  growing  among  the  huge 
boulders  in  the  bottom.  On  the  one  side  the  Living  Rock, 
cut  to  the  quick,  stood  up  a  solid  surface  of  granite  without 
the  slightest  flaw  in  it ;  but  the  height  of  the  uncompromising 
rock-wall  was  crowned  with  the  overhanging  roots  of  trees, 
for  the  pines  clutched  the  soil  with  their  branching  roots, 
seeming  to  grasp  the  granite  as  a  bird  clings  to  a  bough ;  but 
on  the  other  side  the  rock  was  yellow  and  sandy,  and  hollowed 
out  by  the  weather :  there  was  no  depth  in  the  caverns,  no 
boldness  in  the  hollows  of  the  soft  crumbling  ochre-tinted 
rock.  A  few  prickly-leaved  plants,  burdocks,  reeds,  and 
water-plants  at  its  base  were  sufficient  signs  of  a  north  aspect 
and  poor  soil.  Evidently  the  two  ranges,  though  parallel,  and 
as  it  were  blended  at  the  time  of  the  great  cataclysm  which 
changed  the  surface  of  the  globe,  were  composed  of  entirely 
different  materials — an  inexplicable  freak  of  nature,  or  the 
result  of  some  unknown  cause  which  waits  for  genius  to  dis- 
cover it.  In  this  place  the  contrast  between  them  was  most 
strikingly  apparent. 

Veronique  saw  in  front  of  her  a  vast  dry  plateau.  There 
was  no  sign  of  plant-life  anywhere;  the  chalky  soil  explained 
the  infiltration  of  the  water,  only  a  few  stagnant  pools 
remained  here  and  there  where  the  surface  was  incrusted.  To 
the  right  stretched  the  mountains  of  the  Corr^ze,  and  to  the 


Farrabesche  led  the  way,  and    Veronique    followed. 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  175 

left  the  eye  was  arrested  by  the  huge  mass  of  the  Living  Rock, 
the  tall  for-st  trees  that  clothed  its  sides,  and  two  hundred 
acres  of  grass  below  the  forest,  in  strong  contrast  with  the 
ghastly  solitude  about  them. 

"  My  son  and  I  made  the  ditch  that  you  see  down  yonder," 
said  Farrabesche ;  "  you  can  see  it  by  the  line  of  tall  grass  ;  it 
will  be  connected  shortly  with  the  ditch  that  marks  the  edge 
of  your  forest.  Your  property  is  bounded  on  this  side  by  a 
desert,  for  the  first  village  lies  a  league  away." 

Veronique  galloped  into  the  hideous  plain,  and  her  keeper 
followed.  She  cleared  the  ditch  and  rode  at  full  speed  across 
the  dreary  waste,  seeming  to  take  a  kind  of  wild  delight  in  the 
vast  picture  of  desolation  before  her.  Farrabesche  was  right. 
No  skill,  no  human  power  could  turn  that  soil  to  account,  the 
ground  rang  hollow  beneath  the  horse's  hoofs.  This  was  a 
result  of  the  porous  nature  of  the  tufa,  but  there  were  cracks 
and  fissures  no  less  through  which  the  flood-water  sank  out  of 
sight,  doubtless  to  feed  some  far-off  springs. 

**  And  yet  there  are  souls  like  this  !  "  Veronique  exclaimed 
within  herself  as  she  reined  in  her  horse,  after  a  quarter  of  an 
hour's  gallop. 

She  mused  a  while  with  the  desert  all  about  her  ;  there  was 
no  living  creature,  no  animal,  no  insect ;  birds  never  crossed 
the  plateau.  In  the  plain  of  Mont^gnac  there  were  at  any  rate 
the  flints,  a  little  sandy  or  clayey  soil,  and  crumbled  rock  to 
make  a  thin  crust  of  earth  a  few  inches  deep  as  a  begin- 
ning for  cultivation  ;  but  here  the  ungrateful  tufa,  which 
had  ceased  to  be  earth,  and  had  not  become  stone,  wearied 
the  eyes  so  cruelly  that  they  were  absolutely  forced  to  turn 
for  relief  to  the  illimitable  ether  of  space.  Veronique 
looked  along  the  boundary  of  her  forests  and  at  the  meadow 
which  her  husband  had  added  to  the  estate,  then  she  went 
slowly  back  towards  the  mouth  of  the  Gabon.  She  came 
suddenly  upon  Farrabesche,  and  found  him  looking  into  a 
hole,  which  might  have  suggested  that  some  one  of  a  specu- 


176  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

lative  turn  had  been  probing  this  unlikely  spot,  imagining  that 
nature  had  hidden  some  treasure  there, 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Veronique,  noticing  the  deep  sadness 
of  the  expression  on  the  manly  face. 

"  Madame,  I  owe  my  life  to  this  trench  here,  or,  more 
properly,  I  owe  it  to  a  space  for  repentance  and  time  to  re- 
deem my  faults  in  the  eyes  of  men " 

The  effect  of  this  explanation  of  life  was  to  nail  Mme. 
Graslin  to  the  spot.     She  reined  in  her  horse. 

*'  I  used  to  hide  here,  madame.  The  ground  is  so  full  of 
echoes,  that  if  I  laid  my  ear  to  the  earth  I  could  catch  the 
sound  of  the  horses  of  the  gendarmerie  or  the  tramp  of  sol- 
diers (an  unmistakable  sound  that !)  more  than  a  league  away. 
Then  I  used  to  escape  by  way  of  the  Gabou.  I  had  a  horse 
ready  in  a  place  there,  and'  I  always  put  five  or  six  leagues 
between  myself  and  them  that  were  after  me.  Catherine  used 
to  bring  me  food  of  a  night.  If  she  did  not  find  any  sign 
of  me,  I  always  found  bread  and  wine  left  in  a  hole  covered 
over  by  a  stone." 

These  recollections  of  his  wild  vagrant  life,  possibly  un- 
wholesome recollections  for  Farrabesche,  stirred  Veronique's 
most  indulgent  pity,  but  she  rode  rapidly  on  towards  the 
Gabou,  followed  by  the  keeper.  While  she  scanned  the  gap, 
looking  down  the  long  valley,  so  fertile  on  one  side,  so  forlorn 
on  the  other,  and  saw,  more  than  a  league  away,  the  hillside 
ridges,  tier  on  tier,  at  the  back  of  Montegnac,  Farrabesche 
said,  "There  will  be  famous  waterfalls  here  in  a  itw  days." 

"  And  by  the  same  day  next  year,  not  a  drop  of  water  will 
ever  pass  that  way  again.  I  am  on  my  own  property  on 
either  side,  so  I  shall  build  a  wall  solid  enough  and  high 
enough  to  keep  the  water  in.  Instead  of  a  valley  which  is 
doing  nothing,  I  shall  have  a  lake,  twenty,  thirty,  forty,  or 
fifty  feet  deep,  and  about  a  league  across — a  vast  reservoir  for 
the  irrigation  channels  that  shall  fertilize  the  whole  plain  of 
Montegnac." 


MADAME  GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  177 

"M.  le  Cure  was  right,  madame,  when  he  told  us,  as 
we  were  finishing  your  road,  that  we  were  working  for 
our  mother;  may  God  give  his  blessing  to  such  an  enter- 
prise. ' ' 

"Say  nothing  about  it,  Farrabesche,"  said  Mme.  Graslin; 
**it  is  M.  Bonnet's  idea." 

Veronique  returned  to  Farrabesche' s  cottage,  found  Mau- 
rice, and  went  back  at  once  to  the  chateau.  Her  mother  and 
Aline  were  surprised  at  the  change  in  her  face ;  the  hope  of 
doing  good  to  the  country  had  given  it  a  look  of  something 
like  happiness.  Mme.  Graslin  wrote  to  M.  Grossetfete ;  she 
wanted  him  to  ask  M.  de  Granville  for  complete  liberty  for 
the  poor  convict,  giving  particulars  as  to  his  good  conduct, 
which  was  further  vouched  for  by  the  mayor's  certificate  and 
a  letter  from  M,  Bonnet.  She  also  sent  other  particulars  con- 
cerning Catherine  Curieux,  and  entreated  Grossetgte  to  interest 
the  public  prosecutor  in  her  kindly  project,  and  to  cause  a 
letter  to  be  written  to  the  prefecture  of  police  in  Paris  with  a 
view  to  discovering  the  girl.  The  mere  fact  that  Catherine 
had  remitted  sums  of  money  to  the  convict  in  prison  should 
be  a  sufficient  clue  by  which  to  trace  her.  Veronique  had  set 
her  heart  on  knowing  the  reason  why  Catherine  had  failed  to 
come  back  to  her  child  and  to  Farrabesche.  Then  she  told 
her  old  friend  of  her  discoveries  in  the  torrent  bed  of  the 
Gabon,  and  laid  stress  on  the  necessity  of  finding  the  clever 
man  for  whom  she  had  already  asked  him. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  For  the  first  time  since  Vero- 
nique took  up  her  abode  in  Montegnac,  she  felt  able  to  go  to 
church  for  mass.  She  went  and  took  possession  of  her  pew 
in  the  Lady  Chapel.  Looking  round  her,  she  saw  how  bare 
the  poverty-stricken  church  was,  and  determined  to  set  by  a 
certain  sum  every  year  for  repairs  and  the  decoration  of  the 
altars.  She  heard  the  words  of  the  priest,  tender,  gracious, 
and  divine;  for  the  sermon,  couched  in  such  simple  language 
that  all  present  could  understand  it,  was  in  truth  sublime. 
12 


178  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON, 

The  sublime  comes  from  the  heart ;  it  is  not  to  be  found  by 
effort  of  the  intellect ;  and  religion  is  an  inexhaustible  source 
of  sublime  thoughts  with  no  false  glitter  of  brilliancy,  for  the 
Catholicism  which  penetrates  and  changes  hearts  is  wholly  of 
the  heart.  M.  Bonnet  found  in  the  epistle  a  text  for  his 
sermon,  to  the  effect  that  soon  or  late  God  fulfills  his  prom- 
ises, watches  over  his  own,  and  encourages  the  good.  He 
made  it  clear  that  great  things  would  be  the  result  of  the 
presence  of  a  rich  and  charitable  resident  in  the  parish,  by 
pointing  out  that  the  duties  of  the  poor  towards  the  beneficent 
rich  were  as  extensive  as  those  of  the  rich  towards  the  poor, 
and  that  the  relation  should  be  one  of  mutual  help. 

Farrabesche  had  spoken  to  some  of  those  who  were  glad  to 
see  him  (one  consequence  of  the  spirit  of  Christian  charity 
which  M.  Bonnet  had  infused  into  practical  action  in  his 
parish),  and  had  told  them  of  Mme.  Graslin's  kindness  to 
him.  All  the  commune  had  talked  this  over  in  the  square 
below  the  church,  where,  according  to  country  custom,  they 
gathered  together  before  mass.  Nothing  could  more  com- 
pletely have  won  the  good-will  of  these  folk,  who  arc  so  readily 
touched  by  any  kindness  shown  to  them ;  and  when  V6ron- 
ique  came  out  of  church  she  found  almost  all  the  parish 
standing  in  a  double  row.  All  hats  went  off  respectfully  and 
in  deep  silence  as  she  passed.  This  welcome  touched  her, 
though  she  did  not  know  the  real  reason  of  it.  Among  the 
last  of  all  she  saw  Farrabesche,  and  spoke  to  him. 

"  You  are  a  good  sportsman ;  do  not  forget  to  send  us 
some  game." 

A  few  days  after  this  V6ronique  walked  with  the  cur6  in 
that  part  of  the  forest  nearest  her  chiltcau  ;  she  determined  to 
descend  the  ridges  which  she  had  seen  from  the  Living  Rock, 
ranged  tier  on  tier  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill.  With  the 
curb's  assistance  she  would  ascertain  the  exact  position  of  the 
higher  affluents  of  the  Gabou.  The  result  was  the  discovery 
by  the  cur6  of  the  fact  that  the  streams  which  water  Upper 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONTAGNAC.  179 

MoDt^gnac  really  rose  in  the  mountains  of  the  Correze. 
These  ranges  were  united  to  the  mountain  by  the  arid  rib  of 
hill  which  ran  parallel  to  the  chain  of  the  Living  Rock. 
The  cur6  came  back  from  that  walk  with  boyish  glee ;  he 
saw,  with  the  naivete  of  a  poet,  the  prosperity  of  the  village 
that  he  loved.  And  what  is  a  poet  but  a  man  who  realizes  his 
dreams  before  the  time?  M.  Bonnet  reaped  his  harvests  as  he 
looked  down  from  the  terrace  at  the  barren  plain. 

Farrabesche  and  his  son  came  up  to  the  chateau  next  morn- 
ing loaded  with  game.  The  keeper  had  brought  a  cup  for 
Francis  Graslin ;  it  was  nothing  less  than  a  masterpiece — a 
battle-scene  carved  on  a  cocoanut  shell.  Mme.  Graslin 
happened  to  be  walking  on  the  terrace,  on  the  side  that  over- 
looked "  Tascherons. "  She  sat  down  on  a  garden  seat,  and 
looked  long  at  that  fairy's  work.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes 
from  time  to  time. 

"You  must  have  been  very  unhappy,"  she  said,  addressing 
Farrabesche  after  a  silence. 

"What  could  I  do,  madame?"  he  answered.  "I  was 
there  without  the  hope  of  escape,  which  makes  life  bearable 
to  almost  all  the  convicts " 

"  It  is  an  appalling  life  !  "  she  said,  and  her  look  and  com- 
passionate tones  invited  Farrabesche  to  speak. 

In  Mme.  Graslin's  convulsive  tremor  and  evident  emotion 
Farrabesche  saw  nothing  but  the  overwrought  interest  excited 
by  pitying  curiosity.  Just  at  that  moment  Mme.  Sauviat 
appeared  in  one  of  the  garden  walks,  and  seemed  about  to 
join  them,  but  V6ronique  drew  out  her  handkerchief  and 
motioned  her  away.  "Let  me  be,  mother,"  she  cried,  in 
sharper  tones  than  she  had  ever  before  used  to  the  old 
Auvergnate. 

"  For  five  years  I  wore  a  chain  riveted  here  to  a  heavy  iron 
ring,  madame,"  Farrabesche  said,  pointing  to  his  leg.  "  I 
was  fastened  to  another  man.  I  have  had  to  live  like  that 
with  three  convicts  first  and  last.     I  used  to  lie  on  a  wooden 


180  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

camp  bedstead,  and  I  had  to  work  uncommonly  hard  to  get  a 
thin  mattress,  called  a  serpentin.  There  were  eight  hundred 
men  in  each  ward.  Each  of  the  beds  {tolards,  they  called 
them)  held  twenty-four  men,  all  chained  together  two  and 
two,  and  nights  and  mornings  they  passed  a  long  chain  called 
the  *  bilboes  string,'  in  and  out  of  the  chains  that  bound  each 
couple  together,  and  made  it  fast  to  the  tolard,  so  that  all  of 
us  were  fastened  down  by  the  feet.  Even  after  a  couple  of 
years  of  it,  I  could  not  get  used  to  the  clank  of  those  chains; 
every  moment  they  said,  *  You  are  in  a  convicts'  prison  ! ' 
If  you  dropped  off  to  sleep  for  a  minute,  some  rogue  or  other 
would  begin  to  wrangle  or  turn  himself  round,  and  put  you  in 
mind  of  your  plight.  You  had  to  serve  an  apprenticeship  to 
learn  how  to  sleep.  I  could  not  sleep  at  all,  in  fact,  unless  I 
was  utterly  exhausted  with  a  heavy  day's  work. 

"After  I  managed  to  sleep,  I  had,  at  any  rate,  the  night 
when  I  could  forget  things.  Forgetfulness — that  is  something, 
madame  !  Once  a  man  is  there,  he  must  learn  to  satisfy  his 
needs  after  a  manner  fixed  by  the  most  pitiless  rules.  You 
can  judge,  madame,  what  sort  of  effect  this  life  was  like  to 
have  on  me,  a  young  fellow  who  had  always  lived  in  the 
woods,  like  the  wild  goats  and  the  birds  !  Ah  !  if  I  had  not 
eaten  my  bread  cooped  up  in  the  four  walls  of  a  prison  for  six 
months  beforehand,  I  should  have  thrown  myself  into  the  sea 
at  the  sight  of  my  mates,  for  all  the  beautiful  things  M. 
Bonnet  said,  and  (I  may  say  it)  he  has  been  the  father  of  my 
soul.  I  did  pretty  well  in  the  open  air  ;  but  when  once  I  was 
shut  up  in  the  ward  to  sleep  or  eat  (for  we  ate  our  food  there 
out  of  troughs,  three  couples  to  each  trough),  it  took  all  the 
life  out  of  me ;  the  dreadful  faces  and  the  language  of  the 
others  always  sickened  me.  Luckily,  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
summer,  and  half-past  seven  in  winter,  out  we  went  in  spite 
of  heat  or  cold  or  wind  or  rain,  in  the  '  jail  gang ' — that 
means  to  work.  So  we  were  out  of  doors  most  of  our  time, 
and  the  open  air  seems  very  good  to  you  when  you  come  out 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  181 

of  a  place  where  eight  hundred  convicts  herd  together.  The 
air,  you  must  always  remember,  is  sea-air  !  You  enjoy  the 
breeze,  the  sun  is  like  a  friend,  and  you  watch  the  clouds  pass 
over,  and  look  for  hopeful  signs  of  a  beautiful  day.  For  my 
own  part,  I  took  an  interest  in  my  work. ' ' 

Farrabesche  stopped,  for  two  great  tears  rolled  down  Ver- 
onique's  cheeks. 

"  Oh !  madame,  these  are  only  the  roses  of  that  exist- 
ence!  "  he  cried,  taking  the  expression  on  Mme.  Graslin's 
face  for  pity  of  his  lot.  "  These  are  the  dreadful  precautions 
the  government  takes  to  make  sure  of  us,  the  inquisition  kept 
up  by  the  warders,  the  inspection  of  fetters  morning  and 
evening,  the  coarse  food,  the  hideous  clothes  that  humiliate 
you  at  every  moment,  the  constrained  position  while  you 
sleep,  the  frightful  sound  of  four  hundred  double  chains 
clanking  in  an  echoing  ward,  the  prospect  of  being  mowed 
down  with  grapeshot  if  half-a-dozen  scoundrels  take  it  into 
their  heads  to  rebel — all  these  horrible  things  are  nothing, 
they  are  the  roses  of  that  life,  as  I  said  before.  Any  respect- 
able man  unlucky  enough  to  be  sent  there  must  die  of  disgust 
before  very  long.  You  have  to  live  day  and  night  with 
another  convict ;  you  have  to  endure  the  company  of  five 
more  at  every  meal,  and  twenty-three  at  night ;  you  have  to 
listen  to  their  talk. 

"  The  convicts  have  secret  laws  among  themselves,  madame ; 
if  you  make  an  outlaw  of  yourself,  they  will  murder  you ;  if 
you  submit,  you  become  a  murderer.  You  have  your  choice — 
you  must  be  either  victim  or  executioner.  After  all,  if  you 
die  at  a  blow,  that  would  put  an  end  to  you  and  your 
troubles;  but  they  are  too  cunning  in  wickedness,  it  is 
impossible  to  hold  out  against  their  hatred :  any  one  whom 
they  dislike  is  completely  at  their  mercy,  they  can  make  every 
moment  of  his  life  one  constant  torture  worse  than  death. 
Any  man  who  repents  and  tries  to  behave  well  is  the  common 
enemy,  and  more  particularly  theyj^suspect  him  of  tale-telling. 


Ig2  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

They  will  take  a  man's  life  on  a  mere  suspicion  of  tale-telling. 
Every  ward  has  its  tribunal,  where  they  try  crimes  against  the 
convicts*  laws.  It  is  an  offense  not  to  conform  to  their 
customs,  and  a  man  may  be  punished  for  that.  For  instance, 
everybody  is  bound  to  help  the  escape  of  a  convict  \  every 
convict  has  his  chance  of  escape  in  turn,  when  the  whole 
prison  is  bound  to  give  him  help  and  protection.  It  is  a 
crime  to  reveal  anything  done  by  a  convict  to  further  his 
escape.  I  will  not  speak  of  the  horrible  moral  tone  of  the 
prison ;  strictly  speaking,  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  sub- 
ject. The  prison  authorities  chain  men  of  opposite  disposi- 
tions together,  so  as  to  neutralize  any  attempt  at  escape  or  re- 
bellion;  and  always  put  those  who  either  could  not  endure 
each  other,  or  were  suspicious  of  each  other,  on  the  same 
chain." 

"What  did  you  do?"  asked  Mme.  Graslin. 

"Oh!  it  was  like  this,  I  had  luck,"  said  Farrabesche; 
"  the  lot  never  fell  to  me  to  kill  a  doomed  man ;  I  never 
voted  the  death  of  anybody,  no  matter  whom ;  I  was  never 
punished,  no  one  took  a  dislike  to  me,  and  I  lived  comfort- 
ably with  the  three  mates  they  gave  me  one  after  another — all 
three  of  them  feared  and  liked  me.  But  then  I  was  well 
known  in  the  prison  before  I  got  there,  madame.  A 
chauffeur !  for  I  was  supposed  to  be  one  of  those  brigands. 
I  have  seen  them  do  it,"  Farrabesche  went  on  in  a  low  voice, 
after  a  pause,  "  but  I  never  would  help  to  torture  folk,  nor 
take  any  of  the  stolen  money.  I  was  a  *  refractory  conscript,* 
that  was  all.  I  used  to  help  the  rest,  I  was  scout  for  them,  I 
fought,  I  was  forlorn  sentinel,  rearguard,  what  you  will,  but  I 
never  shed  blood  except  in  self-defense.  Oh !  I  told  M. 
Bonnet  and  my  lawyer  everything,  and  the  judges  knew  quite 
well  that  I  was  not  a  murderer.  But,  all  the  same,  I  am  a  great 
criminal ;  the  things  that  I  have  done  are  all  against  the  law. 

"  Two  of  my  old  comrades  had  told  them  about  me  before 
I  came.     I  was  a  man  of  whom  the  greatest  things  might  be 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  183 

expected,  they  said.    In  the  convicts'  prison,  you  see,  madame, 
there  is  nothing  like  a  character  of  that  kind  ;  it  is  worth  even 
more  than  money.     A  murder  is  a  passport  in  this  republic  of 
wretchedness ;  they  leave  you  in  peace.     I  did  nothing  to 
destroy  their  opinion  of  me.     I  looked  gloomy  and  resigned  ; 
it  was  possible  to  be  misled  by  my  face,  and  they  were  misled. 
My  sullen  manner  and  my  silence  were  taken  for  signs  of 
ferocity.     Every  one  there,  convicts  and  warders,  young  and 
old,  respected  me.     I  was  president  of  my  ward.     I  was  never 
tormented  at  night,  nor  suspected   of  tale-telling.      I  lived 
honestly  according  to  their  rules ;  I  never  refused  to  do  any 
one  a  good  turn ;  I  never  showed  a  sign  of  disgust ;  in  short, 
I  'howled  with  the  wolves,'  to  all  appearance,   and  in  my 
secret  soul  I  prayed  to  God.     My  last  mate  was  a  soldier,  a 
lad  of  two-and-twenty,  who  had  stolen  something,  and  then 
deserted  in  consequence ;  I  had  him  for  four  years.     We  were 
friends,  and  wherever  I  may  be  I  can  reckon  on  him  when  he 
comes  out.     The  poor  wretch,  Gudpin  they  called  him,  was 
not  a  rascal,  he  was  only  a  harebrained  boy;  his  ten  years 
will  sober  him  down.     Oh  !  if  the  rest  had  known  that  it  was 
religion  that  reconciled  me  to  my  fate ;  that  when  my  time 
was  up  I  meant  to  live  in  some  corner  without  letting  them 
know  where  I  was,  to  forget  those  fearful  creatures,  and  never 
to  be  in  the  way  of  meeting  one  of  them  again,  they  would 
very  likely  have  driven  me  mad." 

"  But,  then,  suppose  that  some  unhappy,  sensitive  boy  had 
been  carried  away  by  passion,  and — pardoned  so  far  as  the 
death  penalty  is  concerned ?  " 

"  Madame,  a  murderer  is  never  fully  pardoned.  They  be- 
gin by  commuting  the  sentence  for  twenty  years  of  penal  ser- 
vitude. But  for  a  decent  young  fellow  it  is  a  thing  to  shudder 
at !  It  is  impossible  to  tell  you  about  the  life  in  store  for  him  ; 
it  would  be  a  hundred  times  better  for  him  that  he  should 
die  !     Yes,  for  such  a  death  on  the  scaffold  is  good  fortune." 

"  I  did  not  dare  to  think  it,"  said  Mme.  Graslin. 


184  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Veronique  had  grown  white  as  wax.  She  leaned  her  fore 
head  against  the  balustrade  to  hide  her  face  for  several  mo- 
ments. Farrabesche  did  not  know  whether  he  ought  to  go 
or  stay.  Then  Mme.  Graslin  rose  to  her  feet,  and  with  an 
almost  queenly  look  she  said,  to  Farrabesche' s  great  astonish- 
ment, "Thank  you,  my  friend  !  "  in  tones  that  went  to  his 
heart.  Then  after  a  pause—"  Where  did  you  draw  courage 
to  live  and  suffer  as  you  did  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Ah,  raadame,  M.  Bonnet  had  set  a  treasure  in  my  soul ! 
That  is  why  I  love  him  more  than  I  have  ever  loved  any  one 
else  in  this  world." 

"More  than  Catherine?"  asked  Mme.  Graslin,  with  a 
certain  bitterness  in  her  smile. 

"Ah,  madame,  almost  as  much." 

"How  did  he  do  it?" 

"  Madame,  the  things  that  he  said  and  the  tones  of  his 
voice  subdued  me.  It  was  Catherine  who  showed  him  the 
way  to  the  hiding-place  in  the  chalk-land  which  I  showed  you 
the  other  day.  He  came  to  me  quite  alone.  He  was  the  new 
cur6  of  Montegnac,  he  told  me  ;  I  was  his  parishioner,  I  was 
dear  to  him,  he  knew  that  I  had  only  strayed  from  the  path, 
that  I  was  not  yet  lost  ;  he  did  not  mean  to  betray  me,  but  to 
save  me ;  in  fact,  he  said  things  that  thrill  you  to  the  very 
depths  of  your  nature.  And  you  see,  madame,  he  can  make 
you  do  right  with  all  the  force  that  other  people  take  to  make 
you  do  wrong.  He  told  me,  poor  dear  man,  that  Catherine 
was  a  mother ;  I  was  about  to  give  over  two  creatures  to  shame 
and  neglect.  'Very  well,'  said  I,  'then  they  will  be  just  as 
I  am  ;  I  have  no  future  before  me.*  He  answered  that  I  had 
two  futures  before  me,  and  both  of  them  bad — one  in  this 
world,  the  other  in  the  next — unless  I  desisted  and  reformed. 
Here  below  I  was  bound  to  die  on  the  scaffold.  If  I  were 
caught,  my  defense  would  break  down  in  a  court  of  law. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  I  took  advantage  of  the  mildness  of  the 
new  government   towards   'refractory  conscripts'   of  many 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONTAgNAC.  186 

years'  standing,  and  gave  myself  up,  he  would  strain  every 
nerve  to  save  my  life.  He  would  find  me  a  clever  advocate 
who  would  pull  me  through  with  ten  years'  penal  servitude. 
After  that  M.  Bonnet  talked  to  me  of  another  life.  Catherine 
cried  like  a  Magdalen  at  that.  There,  madame,"  said  Farra- 
besche,  holding  out  his  right  hand,  "  she  laid  her  face  against 
this,  and  I  felt  it  quite  wet  with  her  tears.  She  prayed  me 
to  live  !  M.  le  Cure  promised  to  contrive  a  quiet  and  happy 
lot  for  me  and  my  child,  even  in  this  district,  and  undertook 
that  no  one  should  cast  up  the  past  to  me.  In  short,  he  lec- 
tured me  as  if  I  had  been  a  little  boy.  After  three  of  those 
nightly  visits  I  was  as  pliant  as  a  glove.  Do  you  care  to 
know  why,  madame  ? ' ' 

Farrabesche  and  Mme.  Graslin  looked  at  each  other,  and 
neither  of  them  to  their  secret  souls  explained  the  real  motive 
of  their  mutual  curiosity. 

"Very  well,"  the  poor  ticket-of-leave  man  continued,  "  the 
first  time  when  he  had  gone  away,  and  Catherine  went,  too, 
to  show  him  the  way  back,  and  I  was  left  alone,  I  felt  a  kind 
of  freshness  and  calm  happiness  such  as  I  had  not  known 
since  I  was  a  child.  It  was  something  like  the  happiness  I 
had  felt  with  poor  Catherine.  The  love  of  this  dear  man, 
who  had  come  to  seek  me  out,  the  interest  that  he  took  in  me, 
in  my  future,  in  my  soul — it  all  worked  upon  me  and  changed 
me.  It  was  as  if  a  light  arose  in  me.  So  long  as  he  was  with 
me  and  talked,  I  held  out.  How  could  I  help  it  ?  He  was  a 
priest,  and  we  bandits  do  not  eat  their  bread.  But  when  the 
sound  of  his  footsteps  and  Catherine's  died  away — oh  !  I  was, 
as  he  said  two  days  later,  *  enlightened  by  grace.' 

"From  that  time  forwards  God  gave  me  strength  to 
endure  everything — the  jail,  the  sentence,  the  putting  on  of 
the  irons,  the  journey,  the  life  in  the  convicts'  prison.  I 
reckoned  upon  M.  Bonnet's  promise  as  upon  the  truth  of  the 
Gospel ;  I  looked  on  my  sufferings  as  a  payment  of  arrears. 
Whenever  things  grew  unbearable,  I  used  to  see,  at  the  end 


186  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

of  the  ten  years,  this  house  in  the  woods,  and  my  little  Ben- 
jamin and  Catherine  there.  Good  M.  Bonnet,  he  kept  his 
promise ;  but  some  one  else  failed  me.  Catherine  was  not  at 
the  prison-door  when  I  came  out,  nor  yet  at  the  trysting-place 
on  the  common  lands.  She  must  have  died  of  grief.  That  is 
why  I  am  always  sad.  Now,  thanks  to  you,  madame,  I  shall 
have  work  to  do  that  needs  doing ;  I  shall  put  myself  into  it 
body  and  soul,  so  will  my  boy  for  whom  I  live " 

"  You  have  shown  me  how  it  was  that  M.  le  Cure  could 
bring  about  the  changes  in  his  parish " 

"Oh!  nothing  can  resist  him,"  said  Farrabesche. 

"No,  no.  I  know  that,"  Veronique  answered  briefly,  and 
she  very  kindly  dismissed  the  grateful  Farrabesche  with  a  sign 
of  farewell. 

Farrabesche  went.  Most  of  that  day  Veronique  spent  in 
pacing  to  and  fro  along  the  terrace,  in  spite  of  the  drizzling 
rain  that  fell  till  evening  came  on.  She  was  gloomy  and  sad. 
When  V^ronique's  brows  were  thus  contracted,  neither  her 
mother  nor  Aline  dared  to  break  in  on  her  mood  ;  she  did  not 
see  her  mother  talking  in  the  dusk  with  M.  Bonnet,  who, 
seeing  that  she  must  be  roused  from  this  appalling  dejection, 
sent  the  child  to  find  her.  Little  Francis  went  up  to  his 
mother  and  took  her  hand,  and  Veronique  suffered  herself  to 
be  led  away.  At  the  sight  of  M.  Bonnet  she  started  with 
something  almost  like  dismay.  The  cur6  led  the  way  back  to 
the  terrace. 

"  Well,  madame,"  he  said,  "what  can  you  have  been  talk- 
ing about  with  Farrabesche  ?  " 

Veronique  did  not  wish  to  lie  nor  to  answer  the  question  ; 
she  replied  to  it  by  another — 

"  Was  he  your  first  victory?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  M.  Bonnet.  "  If  I  could  win  him,  I  felt  sure 
of  Mont6gnac;  and  so  it  proved." 

Veronique  pressed  M.  Bonnet's  hand. 

"  From  to^iay  I  am  your  penitent,  M.  le  Cur6,"  she  said, 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONTEGNAC.  187 

with  tears  in  her  voice ;  "  to-morrow  I  will  make  you  a 
general  confession." 

The  last  words  plainly  spoke  of  a  great  inward  struggle  and 
a  hardly-won  victory  over  herself.  The  cure  led  the  way  back 
to  the  chateau  without  a  word,  and  stayed  with  her  till  dinner, 
talking  over  the  vast  improvements  to  be  made  in  Montegnac. 

"  Agriculture  is  a  question  of  time,"  he  said.  **  The  little 
that  I  know  about  it  has  made  me  to  understand  how  much 
may  be  done  by  a  well-spent  winter.  Here  are  the  rains 
beginning,  you  see ;  before  long  the  mountains  will  be 
covered  with  snow,  and  your  operations  will  be  impossible ; 
so  hurry  M.  Grossetete." 

M.  Bonnet  exerted  himself  to  talk,  and  drew  Mme.  Graslin 
into  the  conversation  ;  gradually  her  thoughts  were  forced  to 
take  another  turn,  and  by  the  time  he  left  her  she  had  almost 
recovered  from  the  day's  excitement.  But  even  so,  Mme. 
Sauviat  saw  that  her  daughter  was  so  terribly  agitated  that  she 
spent  the  night  with  her. 

Two  days  later  a  messenger  sent  by  M.  Grosset6te  arrived 
with  the  following  letters  for  Mme.  Graslin : 

Grossetete  to  Mme.  Graslin. 

"  My  dear  Child: — Horses  are  not  easily  to  be  found,  but 
I  hope  that  you  are  satisfied  with  the  three  which  I  sent  you. 
If  you  need  draught-horses  or  plough-horses,  they  must  be 
looked  for  elsewhere.  It  is  better  in  any  case  to  use  oxen  for 
ploughing  and  as  draught  animals.  In  all  districts  where 
they  use  horses  on  the  land,  they  lose  their  capital  as  soon  as 
the  animal  is  past  work,  while  an  ox,  instead  of  being  a  loss, 
yields  a  profit  to  the  farmer. 

"  I  approve  of  your  enterprise  in  every  respect,  my  child ; 
you  will  find  in  it  an  outlet  for  the  devouring  mental  energy 
which  was  turned  against  yourself  and  wearing  you  out.  But 
when  you  asked  me  to  find  you,  over  and  above  the  horses,  a 


188  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

man  able  to  second  you,  and  more  particularly  to  enter  into 
your  views,  you  ask  me  for  one  of  those  rare  birds  that  we 
rear  it  is  true  in  the  provinces,  but  which  we  in  no  case  keep 
among  us.  The  training  of  the  noble  animal  is  too  lengthy 
and  too  risky  a  speculation  for  us  to  undertake,  and,  besides, 
we  are  afraid  of  these  very  clever  folk — 'eccentrics,'  we  call 
them. 

**  As  a  matter  of  fact,  too,  the  men  who  are  classed  in  the 
scientific  category  in  which  you  are  fain  to  find  a  co-operator 
are,  as  rule,  so  prudent  and  so  well  provided  for,  that  I  hardly 
liked  to  write  to  tell  you  how  impossible  it  would  be  to  come 
by  such  a  prize.  You  ask  me  for  a  poet,  or,  if  you  prefer 
it,  a  madman ;  but  all  our  madmen  betake  themselves  to  Paris. 
I  did  speak  to  one  or  two  young  fellows  engaged  on  the  land 
survey  and  assessments,  contractors  for  embankments,  or  fore- 
men employed  on  canal  cuttings ;  but  none  of  them  thought 
it  worth  their  while  to  entertain  your  proposals.  Chance  all  at 
once  threw  in  my  way  the  very  man  you  want,  a  young  man 
whom  I  thought  to  help ;  for  you  will  see  by  his  letter  that 
one  ought  not  to  set  about  doing  a  kindness  in  a  happy-go- 
lucky  fashion,  and,  indeed,  an  act  of  kindness  requires  more 
thinking  about  than  anything  else  on  this  earth.  You  can 
never  tell  whether  what  seemed  to  you  to  be  right  at  the  time 
may  not  do  harm  by  and  by.  By  helping  others  we  shape  our 
own  destinies;  I  see  that  now " 

As  Mme.  Graslin  read  those  words,  the  letter  dropped  from 
her  hands.     For  some  moments  she  sat  deep  in  thought. 

"Oh,  God,"  she  cried,  ''when  wilt  Thou  cease  to  smite 
me  by  every  man's  hand  ?  " 

Then  she  picked  up  the  letters  and  read  on — 

"  G6rard  seems  to  me  to  have  plenty  of  enthusiasm  and  a 
cool  head  ;  the  very  man  for  you  !  Paris  is  in  a  ferment  just 
now  with  this  leaven  of  new  doctrine,  and  I  shall  be  delighted 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  189 

if  the  young  fellow  keeps  out  of  the  snares  spread  by  ambi- 
tious spirits,  who  work  upon  the  instincts  of  the  generous  youth 
of  France.  The  rather  torpid  existence  of  the  provinces  is 
not  altogether  what  I  like  for  him,  but  neither  do  I  like  the 
idea  of  the  excitement  of  the  life  in  Paris,  and  the  enthusiasm 
for  renovating,  which  urges  youngsters  into  the  new  ways. 
You,  and  you  only,  know  my  opinions ;  to  me  it  seems  that 
the  world  of  ideas  revolves  on  its  axis  much  as  the  material 
world  does.  Here  is  this  poor  protege  of  mine  wanting  im- 
possibilities. No  power  on  earth  could  stand  before  ambitions 
so  violent,  imperious,  and  absolute.  I  have  a  liking  myself 
for  a  jog  trot ;  I  like  to  go  slowly  in  politics,  and  have  but  very 
little  taste  for  the  social  topsy-turvydom  which  all  these  lofty 
spirits  are  minded  to  inflict  upon  us.  To  you  I  confide  the 
principles  of  an  old  and  trusted  supporter  of  the  Monarchy, 
for  you  are  discreet.  I  hold  my  tongue  here  among  these 
good  folk,  who  believe  more  and  more  in  progress  the  farther 
they  get  into  a  mess ;  but  for  all  that  it  hurts  me  to  see  the 
irreparable  damage  done  already  to  our  dear  country. 

**  So  I  wrote  and  told  the  young  man  that  a  task  worthy  of 
him  was  waiting  for  him  here.  He  is  coming  to  see  you  ;  for 
though  his  letter  (which  I  enclose)  will  give  you  a  very  fair 
idea  of  him,  you  would  like  to  see  him  as  well,  would  you  not  ? 
You  women  can  tell  so  much  from  the  look  of  people ;  and, 
besides,  you  ought  not  to  have  any  one,  however  insignificant, 
in  your  service  unless  you  like  him.  If  he  is  not  the  man 
you  want,  you  can  decline  his  services ;  but  if  he  suits  you, 
dear  child,  cure  him  of  his  flimsily-disguised  ambitions,  induce 
him  to  adopt  the  happy  and  peaceful  life  of  the  fields,  a  life 
in  which  beneficence  is  perpetual,  where  all  the  qualities  of 
a  great  and  strong  nature  are  continually  brought  into  play, 
where  the  products  of  nature  are  a  daily  source  of  new  wonder, 
and  a  man  finds  worthy  occupation  in  making  a  real  advance 
and  practical  improvements.  I  do  not  in  any  way  overlook 
the  fact  that  great  deeds  come  of  great  ideas — great  theories ; 


190  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

but  as  ideas  of  that  kind  are  seldom  met  with,  I  think  that, 
for  the  most  part,  practical  attainments  are  worth  more  than 
ideas.  A  man  who  brings  a  bit  of  land  into  cultivation  or  a 
tree  or  fruit  to  perfection,  who  makes  grass  grow  where  grass 
would  not  grow  before,  ranks  a  good  deal  higher  than  the 
seeker  after  formulas  for  humanity.  In  what  has  Newton's 
science  changed  the  lot  of  the  worker  in  the  fields  ?  Ah  !  my 
dear,  I  loved  you  before,  but  to-day,  appreciating  to  the  full 
the  task  which  you  have  set  before  you,  I  love  you  far  more. 
You  are  not  forgotten  here  in  Limoges,  and  everyone  admires 
your  great  resolution  of  improving  Montegnac.  Give  us  our 
little  due,  in  that  we  have  the  wit  to  admire  nobility  when  we 
see  it,  and  do  not  forget  that  the  first  of  your  admirers  is  also 

your  earliest  friend. 

"F.  Grossetete." 

Girard  to  Grosselfete. 

*'  I  come  to  you,  monsieur,  with  sad  confidences,  but  you 
have  been  like  a  father  to  me,  when  you  might  have  been 
simply  a  patron.  So  to  you  alone,  who  have  made  me  any- 
thing that  I  am,  can  I  make  them.  I  have  fallen  a  victim  to 
a  cruel  disease,  a  disease,  moreover,  not  of  the  body ;  I  am 
conscious  that  I  am  completely  unfitted  by  my  thoughts,  feel- 
ings, and  opinions,  and  by  the  whole  bent  of  my  mind,  to  do 
what  is  expected  of  me  by  the  government  and  by  society. 
Perhaps  this  will  seem  to  you  to  be  a  piece  of  ingratitude,  but 
it  is  simply  and  solely  an  indictment  that  I  address  to  you. 

**  When  I  was  twelve  years  old  you  saw  the  signs  of  a  certain 
aptitude  for  the  exact  sciences,  and  a  precocious  ambition  to 
succeed,  in  a  workingman's  son,  and  it  was  through  you,  my 
generous  godfather,  that  I  took  my  flight  towards  higher 
spheres ;  but  for  you  I  should  be  following  out  my  original 
destiny,  I  should  be  a  carpenter  like  my  poor  father,  who  did 
not  live  to  rejoice  in  my  success.  And  most  surely,  monsieur, 
you  did  me  a  kindness ;  there  is  no  day  on  which  I  do  not 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONTj&GNAC.  191 

bless  you ;  and  so,  perhaps,  it  is  I  who  am  in  the  wrong.  But 
whether  right  or  wrong,  I  am  unhappy ;  and  does  not  the  fact 
that  I  pour  out  my  complaints  to  you  set  you  very  high  ?  Is 
it  not  as  if  I  made  of  you  a  supreme  judge,  like  God?  In 
any  case,  I  trust  to  your  indulgence. 

**  I  studied  the  exact  sciences  so  hard  between  the  ages  of 
sixteen  and  eighteen  that  I  made  myself  ill,  as  you  know. 
My  whole  future  depended  on  my  admission  to  the  Ecole 
Polytechnique.  The  work  I  did  at  that  time  was  a  dispropor- 
tionate training  for  the  intellect;  I  all  but  killed  myself;  I 
studied  day  and  night ;  I  exerted  myself  to  do  more  than  I 
was  perhaps  fit  for.  I  was  determined  to  pass  my  examina- 
tions so  well  that  I  should  be  sure  not  only  of  admittance  into 
the  Ecole,  but  of  a  free  education  there,  for  I  wanted  to  spare 
you  the  expense,  and  I  succeeded  ! 

*'  It  makes  me  shudder  now  to  think  of  that  appalling  con- 
scription of  brains  yearly  made  over  to  the  government  by 
family  ambition ;  a  conscription  which  demands  such  severe 
study  at  a  time  when  a  lad  is  almost  a  man,  and  growing 
fast  in  every  way,  cannot  but  do  incalculable  mischief; 
many  precious  faculties  which  later  would  have  developed 
and  grown  strong  and  powerful  are  extinguished  by  the  light 
of  the  student's  lamp.  Nature's  laws  are  inexorable ;  they 
are  not  to  be  thrust  aside  by  the  schemes  nor  at  the  pleasure 
of  society ;  and  the  laws  of  the  physical  world,  the  laws 
which  govern  the  nature  without,  hold  good  no  less  of 
human  nature — every  abuse  must  be  paid  for.  If  you  must 
have  fruit  out  of  season,  you  have  it  from  a  forcing  house 
either  at  the  expense  of  the  tree  or  of  the  quality  of  the 
fruit.  La  Quintinie  killed  the  orange  trees  that  Louis  XIV. 
might  have  a  bouquet  of  orange  blossoms  every  morning 
throughout  the  year.  Any  heavy  demand  made  on  a  still- 
growing  intellect  is  a  draft  on  its  future. 

"The  pressing  and  special  need  of  our  age  is  the  spirit  of 
the  lawgiver.     Europe  has  so  far  seen  no  lawgiver  since  Jesus 


192  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Christ;  and  Christ,  who  gave  us  no  vestige  of  a  political 
code,  left  His  work  incomplete.  For  example,  before  tech- 
nical schools  were  established,  and  the  present  means  of  filling 
them  with  scholars  was  adopted,  did  they  call  in  one  of  the 
great  thinkers  who  hold  in  their  heads  the  immensity  of  the 
sum  of  the  relations  of  the  institution  to  human  brain-power ; 
who  can  balance  the  advantages  and  disadvantages,  and  study 
in  the  past  the  laws  of  the  future  ?  Was  any  inquiry  made 
into  the  after-lives  of  men  who,  for  their  misfortune,  knew 
the  circle  of  the  sciences  at  too  early  an  age  ?  Was  any  esti- 
mate of  their  rarity  attempted  ?  Was  their  fate  ascertained  ? 
Was  it  discovered  how  they  contrived  to  endure  the  continual 
strain  of  thought?  How  many  of  them  died  like  Pascal, 
prematurely,  worn  out  by  science  ?  Some,  again,  lived  to 
old  age ;  when  did  these  begin  their  studies  ?  Was  it  known 
then,  is  it  known  now  as  I  write,  what  conformation  of  the 
brain  is  best  fitted  to  stand  the  strain  and  to  cope  prematurely 
with  knowledge  ?  Is  it  so  much  as  suspected  that  this  is  before 
all  things  a  physiological  question  ? 

"Well,  I  think  myself  that  the  general  rule  is  that  the 
vegetative  period  of  adolescence  should  be  prolonged.  There 
are  exceptions  ;  there  are  some  so  constituted  that  they  are 
capable  of  this  effort  in  youth,  but  the  result  is  the  shortening 
of  life  in  most  cases.  Clearly  the  man  of  genius  who  can 
stand  the  precocious  exercise  of  his  faculties  is  bound  to  be  an 
exception  among  exceptions.  If  medical  testimony  and  social 
data  bear  me  out,  our  way  of  recruiting  for  the  technical 
schools  in  France  works  as  much  havoc  among  the  best  human 
specimens  of  each  generation  as  La  Quintinie's  process  among 
the  orange  trees. 

"But  to  continue  (for  I  will  append  my  doubts  to  each 
series  of  facts),  I  began  my  work  anew  at  the  Ecole,  and  with 
more  enthusiasm  than  ever.  I  meant  to  leave  it  as  success- 
fully as  I  had  entered  it.  Between  the  ages  of  nineteen  and 
one-and-twenty  I  worked  with  all  my  might,  and  developed 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  193 

my  faculties  by  their  constant  exercise.  Those  two  years  set 
the  crown  on  the  three  which  came  before  them,  when  I  was 
only  preparing  to  do  great  things.  And  then,  what  pride  did 
I  not  feel  when  I  had  won  the  privilege  of  choosing  the  career 
most  to  my  mind  ?  I  might  be  a  military  or  marine  engineer, 
might  go  on  the  staff  of  the  artillery,  into  the  mines  depart- 
ment, or  the  roads  and  bridges.  I  took  your  advice,  and 
became  a  civil  engineer. 

"  Yet  where  I  triumphed,  how  many  fell  out  of  the  ranks  ! 
You  know  that  from  year  to  year  the  government  raises  the 
standard  of  tlie  Ecole.  The  work  grows  harder  and  more 
trying  from  time  to  time.  Tlie  course  of  preparatory  study 
through  which  I  went  was  nothing  compared  with  the  work  at 
fever-heat  in  the  Ecole,  to  the  end  that  every  physical  science — 
mathematics,  astronomy,  and  chemistry,  and  the  terminologies 
of  each — may  be  packed  into  the  heads  of  so  many  young  men 
between  the  ages  of  nineteen  and  twenty-one.  The  govern- 
ment here  in  France,  which  in  so  many  ways  seems  to  aim  at 
taking  the  place  of  the  paternal  authority,  has  in  this  respect 
no  bowels — no  father's  pity  for  its  children ;  it  makes  its 
experiments  in  anima  vili.  The  ugly  statistics  of  the  mischief 
it  has  wrought  have  never  been  asked  for ;  no  one  has  troubled 
to  inquire  how  many  cases  of  brain  fever  there  have  been 
during  the  last  thirty-six  years ;  how  many  explosions  of  de- 
spair among  those  young  lads ;  no  one  takes  account  of  the 
moral  destruction  which  decimates  the  victims.  I  lay  stress 
on  this  painful  aspect  of  the  problem  because  it  occurs  by  the 
way  and  before  the  final  result;  for  a  few  weaklings  the 
result  comes  soon  instead  of  late.  You  know,  besides,  that 
these  victims,  whose  minds  work  slowly,  or  who,  it  may  be, 
are  temporarily  stupefied  with  overwork,  are  allowed  to  stay 
for  three  years  instead  of  two  at  the  Ecole,  but  the  way  these 
are  regarded  there  has  no  very  favorable  influence  on  their 
capacity.  In  fact,  it  may  chance  that  young  men,  who  at  a 
later  day  will  show  that  they  have  something  in  them,  may 
13 


194  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

leave  the  Ecole  without  an  appointment  at  all,  because  at  the 
final  examination  they  do  not  exhibit  the  amount  of  knowledge 
required  of  them.  These  are  'plucked,'  as  they  say,  and 
Napoleon  used  to  make  sub-lieutenants  of  them.  In  these 
days  the  *  plucked  '  candidate  represents  a  vast  loss  of  capital 
invested  by  families,  and  a  loss  of  time  for  the  lad  himself. 

"  But,  after  all,  I  myself  succeeded !  At  the  age  of  one- 
and-twenty  I  had  gone  over  all  the  grourld  discovered  in 
mathematics  by  men  of  genius,  and  I  was  impatient  to  dis- 
tinguish myself  by  going  farther.  The  desire  is  so  natural 
that  almost  every  student  when  he  leaves  the  Ecole  fixes  his 
eyes  on  the  sun  called  glory  in  an  invisible  heaven.  The 
first  thought  in  all  our  minds  was  to  be  a  Newton,  a  Laplace, 
or  a  Vauban.  Such  are  the  efforts  which  France  requires  of 
young  men  who  leave  the  famous  Ecole  Polytechnique ! 

"And  now  let  us  see  what  becomes  of  the  men  sorted  and 
sifted  with  such  care  out  of  a  whole  generation.  At  one-and- 
twenty  we  dream  dreams,  a  whole  lifetime  lies  before  us,  we 
expect  wonders.  I  entered  the  School  of  Roads  and  Bridges, 
and  became  a  civil  engineer.  I  studied  construction,  and 
with  what  enthusiasm !  You  must  remember  it.  In  1826, 
when  I  left  the  school,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  I  was  still 
only  a  civil  engineer  on  my  promotion,  with  a  government 
grant  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  francs  a  month.  The  worst-paid 
book-keeper  in  Paris  will  earn  as  much  by  the  time  he  is  eigh- 
teen, and  with  four  hours'  work  in  the  day.  By  unhoped-for 
good  luck,  it  may  be  because  my  studies  had  brought  me  dis- 
tinction, I  received  an  appointment  as  a  surveyor  in  1828.  I 
was  twenty-six  years  old.  They  sent  me,  you  know  where, 
into  a  sub-prefecture  with  a  salary  of  two  thousand  five  hun- 
dred francs.  The  money  matters  nothing.  My  lot  is  at  any 
rate  more  brilliant  than  a  carpenter's  son  has  a  right  to  expect  \ 
but  what  journeyman  grocer  put  into  a  shop  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen will  not  be  fairly  on  the  way  to  an  independence  by  the 
time  he  is  six-and-twenty  ? 


MADAME    GRASLZxV  AT  MONTJ^GNAC.  195 

**  Then  I  found  out  the  end  to  which  these  terrible  displays 
of  intelligence  were  directed,  and  why  the  gigantic  efforts, 
required  of  us  by  the  government,  were  made.  The  govern- 
ment sent  me  to  count  paving-stones  and  measure  the  heaps 
of  road-material  by  the  waysides.  I  must  repair,  keep  in  order, 
and  occasionally  construct  runnels  and  culverts,  maintain  the 
ways,  clean  out,  and  occasionally  open  ditches.  At  the  office 
I  must  answer  all  questions  relating  to  the  alignment  or  the 
planting  and  felling  of  trees.  These  are,  in  fact,  the  principal 
and  often  the  only  occupations  of  an  ordinary  surveyor. 
Perhaps  from  time  to  time  there  is  some  bit  of  leveling  to  be 
done,  and  that  we  are  obliged  to  do  ourselves,  though  any  of 
the  foremen  with  his  practical  experience  could  do  the  work 
a  good  deal  better  than  we  can  with  all  our  science. 

"  There  are  nearly  four  hundred  of  us  altogether — ordinary 
surveyors  and  assistants — and  as  there  are  only  some  hundred- 
odd  engineers-in-chief,  all  the  subordinates  cannot  hope  for 
promotion  ;  there  is  practically  no  higher  rank  to  absorb  the 
engineers-in-chief,  for  twelve  or  fifteen  inspectors-general  or 
divisionaries  scarcely  count,  and  their  posts  are  almost  as 
much  of  sinecures  in  our  corps  as  colonelcies  in  the  artillery 
when  the  battery  is  united  with  it.  An  ordinary  civil  engi- 
neer, like  a  captain  of  artillery,  knows  all  that  is  known  about 
his  work ;  he  ought  not  to  need  any  one  to  look  after  him 
except  an  administrative  head  to  connect  the  eighty-six  engi- 
neers  with  each  other  and  the  government,  for  a  single 
engineer  with  two  assistants  is  quite  enough  for  a  department. 
A  hierarchy  in  such  a  body  as  ours  works  in  this  way.  Ener- 
getic minds  are  subordinated  to  old  effete  intelligences,  who 
think  themselves  bound  to  distort  and  alter  (they  think  for 
the  better)  the  drafts  submitted  to  them  ;  perhaps  they  do  this 
simply  to  give  some  reason  for  their  existence ;  and  this,  it 
seems  to  me,  is  the  only  influence  exerted  on  public  works 
in  France  by  the  General  Council  of  Roads  and  Bridges. 

"Let  us  suppose,  however,  that  between  the  ages  of  thirty 


196  THE  COUNTRY  PARSOI^. 

and  forty  I  become  an  engineer  of  the  first-class,  and  am  an 
engineer-in-chief  by  the  time  I  am  fifty.  Alas  !  I  foresee 
my  future  ;  it  lies  before  my  eyes.  My  engineer-in-chief  is  a 
man  of  sixty.  He  left  the  famous  Ecole  with  distinction,  as 
I  did  ;  he  has  grown  gray  in  two  departments  over  such  work 
as  I  am  doing ;  he  has  become  the  most  commonplace  man 
imaginable,  has  fallen  from  the  heights  of  attainment  he  once 
reached  ;  nay,  more  than  that,  he  is  not  even  abreast  of  sci- 
ence. Science  has  made  progress,  and  he  has  remained 
stationary;  worse  still,  has  forgotten  what  he  once  knew! 
The  man  who  came  to  the  front  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  with 
every  sign  of  real  ability  has  nothing  of  it  left  now  but  the 
appearance.  At  the  very  outset  of  his  career  his  education 
was  especially  directed  to  mathematics  and  the  exact  sciences, 
and  he  took  no  interest  in  anything  that  was  not  *  in  his 
line.'  You  would  scarcely  believe  it,  but  the  man  knows 
absolutely  nothing  of  other  branches  of  learning.  Mathe- 
matics have  dried  up  his  heart  and  brain.  I  cannot  tell  any 
one  but  you  what  a  nullity  he  really  is,  screened  by  the  name 
of  the  Ecole  Polytechnique.  The  label  is  impressive ;  and 
people,  being  prejudiced  in  his  favor,  do  not  dare  to  throw 
any  doubt  on  his  ability.  But  to  you  I  may  say  that  his  be- 
fogged intellects  have  cost  the  department  in  one  affair  a 
million  francs,  where  two  hundred  thousand  should  have 
been  ample.  I  was  for  protesting,  for  opening  the  prefect's 
eyes,  and  whatnot ;  but  a  friend  of  mine,  another  surveyor, 
told  me  about  a  man  in  the  corps  who  became  a  kind  of  black 
sheep  in  the  eyes  of  the  administration  by  doing  something  of 
this  sort.  *  Would  you  yourself  be  very  much  pleased,  when 
you  are  engineer-in-chief,  to  have  your  mistakes  shown  up  by 
a  subordinate  ? '  asked  he.  '  Your  engineer-in-chief  will  be 
a  divisionary  inspector  before  very  long.  As  soon  as  one  of  us 
makes  some  egregious  blunder,  the  administration  (which,  of 
course,  must  never  be  in  the  wrong)  withdraws  the  perpetrator 
from  active  service  and  makes  him  an  inspector.'     That  is 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  AlONTEGNAC.  197 

how  the  reward  due  to  a  capable  man  becomes  a  so»;*  of  pre- 
mium on  stupidity. 

"All  France  saw  one  disaster  in  the  heart  of  Paris,  the 
miserable  collapse  of  the  first  suspension  bridge  which  an 
engineer  (a  member  of  the  Academie  des  Sciences,  moreover) 
endeavored  to  construct,  a  collapse  caused  by  blunders  which 
would  not  have  been  made  by  the  constructor  of  the  Canal 
de  Briare  in  the  time  of  Henri  IV.,  nor  by  the  monk  who 
built  the  Pont  Royal.  Him,  too,  the  administration  consoled 
by  a  summons  to  the  Board  of  the  General  Council. 

"Are  the  technical  schools  really  manufactories  of  incom- 
petence ?  The  problem  requires  prolonged  observation.  If 
there  is  anything  in  what  I  say,  a  reform  is  needed,  at  any 
rate  in  the  way  in  which  they  are  carried  on,  for  I  do  not 
venture  to  question  the  usefulness  of  the  Ecoles.  Still,  look- 
ing back  over  the  past,  does  it  appear  that  France  has  ever 
lacked  men  of  great  ability  at  need,  or  the  talent  she  tries  to 
hatch  as  required  in  these  days  by  Monge's  method?  What 
school  turned  out  Vauban  save  the  great  school  called  '  voca- 
tion?' Who  was  Riquet's  master  ?  When  genius  has  raised 
itself  above  the  social  level,  urged  upwards  by  a  vocation,  it 
is  almost  always  fully  equipped ;  and  in  that  case  your  man  is 
no  'specialist,'  but  has  something  universal  in  his  gift.  I  do 
not  believe  that  any  engineer  who  ever  left  the  Ecole  could 
build  one  of  the  miracles  of  architecture  which  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  reared  ;  Leonardo  at  once  mechanician,  architect,  and 
painter,  one  of  the  inventors  of  hydraulic  science,  the  inde- 
fatigable constructor  of  canals.  They  are  so  accustomed 
while  yet  in  their  teens  to  the  bald  simplicity  of  geometry, 
that  by  the  time  they  leave  the  Ecole  they  have  quite  lost  all 
feeling  for  grace  or  ornament ;  a  column  to  their  eyes  is  a 
useless  waste  of  material ;  they  return  to  the  point  where  art 
begins — on  utility  they  take  their  stand,  and  stay  there. 

"But  this  is  as  nothing  compared  with  the  disease  which  is 
consuming  me.     I  feel  that  a  most  terrible  change  is  being 


198  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

wrought  in  me  ;  I  feel  that  my  energy  and  faculties,  after  the 
exorbitant  strain  put  upon  them,  are  dwindling  and  growing 
feeble.  The  influence  of  my  humdrum  life  is  creeping  over 
me.  After  such  efforts  as  mine,  I  feel  that  I  am  destined  to 
do  great  things,  and  I  am  confronted  by  the  most  trivial  task 
work,  such  as  verifying  yards  of  road-material,  inspecting  high- 
ways, checking  inventories  of  stores.  I  have  not  enough  to 
do  to  fill  two  hours  in  the  day. 

"  I  watch  my  colleagues  marry  and  fall  out  of  touch  with 
modern  thought.  Is  my  ambition  really  immoderate?  I 
should  like  to  serve  my  country.  My  country  required  me  to 
give  proof  of  no  ordinary  powers,  and  bade  me  become  an 
encyclopedia  of  the  sciences — and  here  I  am,  folding  my 
arms  in  an  obscure  corner  of  a  province.  I  am  not  allowed 
to  leave  the  place  where  I  am  penned  up,  to  exercise  my  wits 
by  trying  new  and  useful  experiments  elsewhere.  A  vague 
indefinable  grudge  is  the  certain  reward  awaiting  any  one  of 
us  who  follows  his  own  inspirations,  and  does  more  than  the 
department  requires  of  him.  The  most  that  such  a  man 
ought  to  hope  for  is  that  his  overweening  presumption  may  be 
passed  over,  his  talent  neglected,  while  his  project  receives 
decent  burial  in  the  pigeon-holes  at  headquarters.  What  will 
Vicat's  reward  be,  I  wonder  ?  (Between  ourselves,  Vicat  is  the 
only  man  among  us  who  has  made  any  real  advance  in  the 
science  of  construction.) 

"  The  General  Council  of  Roads  and  Bridges  is  partly 
made  up  of  men  worn  out  by  long  and  sometimes  honorable 
service,  but  whose  remaining  brain-power  only  exerts  itself 
negatively ;  these  gentlemen  erase  anything  that  they  cannot 
understand  at  their  age,  and  act  as  a  sort  of  extinguisher  to  be 
put  when  required  on  audacious  innovations.  The  Council 
might  have  been  created  for  the  express  purpose  of  paralyzing 
the  arm  of  the  generous  younger  generation,  which  only  asks 
for  leave  to  work,  and  would  fain  serve  France. 

"  Monstrous   things   happen   in   Paris.      The   future  of  r. 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  199 

province  depends  on  the  visa  of  these  bureaucrats.  I  have 
not  time  to  tell  you  all  about  the  intrigues  which  balk  the 
best  schemes ;  for  them  the  best  schemes  are,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  those  which  open  up  the  best  prospects  of  money-making 
to  the  greed  of  speculators  and  companies,  which  knock  most 
abuses  on  the  head,  for  abuses  are  always  stronger  than  the 
spirit  of  improvement  in  France.  In  five  years'  time  my  old 
self-will  has  ceased  to  rule.  I  shall  see  my  ambitions  die  out 
in  me,  and  my  noble  desire  to  use  the  faculties  which  my 
country  bade  me  display,  and  then  left  to  rust  in  my  obscure 
corner. 

"Taking  the  most  favorable  view  possible,  my  outlook 
seems  to  me  to  be  very  poor.  I  took  advantage  of  leave  of 
absence  to  come  to  Paris.  I  want  to  change  my  career,  to 
find  scope  for  my  energies,  knowledge,  and  activity.  I  shall 
send  in  my  resignation,  and  go  to  some  country  where  men 
with  my  special  training  are  needed,  where  great  things  may 
be  done.  If  none  of  all  this  is  possible,  I  will  throw  in  my 
lot  with  some  of  these  new  doctrines  which  seem  as  if  they 
must  make  some  great  change  in  the  present  order  of  things, 
by  directing  the  workers  to  better  purpose.  For  what  are  we 
but  laborers  without  work,  tools  lying  idle  in  the  warehouse? 
We  are  organized  as  if  it  was  a  question  of  shaking  the  globe, 
and  we  are  required  to  do — nothing, 

"  I  am  conscious  that  there  is  something  great  in  me  which 
is  pining  away  and  will  perish ;  I  tell  you  this  with  mathe- 
matical explicitness.  But  I  sliould  like  to  have  your  advice 
before  I  make  a  change  in  my  condition.  I  look  on  myself 
as  your  son,  and  should  never  take  any  important  step  without 
consulting  you,  for  your  experience  is  as  great  as  your  good- 
ness. I  know,  of  course,  that  when  the  government  has  ob- 
tained its  specially  trained  men,  it  can  no  more  set  its  en- 
gineers to  construct  public  monuments  than  it  can  declare  wai 
to  give  the  army  an  opportunity  of  winning  great  battles  and 
of  finding  out  which  are  its  great  captains.     But,  then,  as  the 


200  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

man  has  never  failed  to  appear  when  circumstances  called  for 
him;  as,  at  the  moment  when  there  is  much  money  to  be 
spent  and  great  things  to  be  done,  one  of  these  unique  men 
of  genius  springs  up  from  the  crowd  ;  and  as,  particularly  in 
matters  of  this  kind,  one  Vauban  is  enough  at  a  time,  nothing 
could  better  demonstrate  the  utter  uselessness  of  the  institu- 
tion. In  conclusion,  when  a  picked  man's  mental  energies 
have  been  stimulated  by  all  this  preparation,  how  can  the 
government  help  seeing  that  he  will  make  any  amount  of 
struggle  before  he  allows  himself  to  be  effaced?  Is  it  wise 
policy?  What  is  it  but  a  way  of  kindling  burning  ambition? 
Would  they  bid  all  those  perfervid  heads  learn  to  calculate 
anything  and  everything  but  the  probabilities  of  their  own 
futures  ? 

"  There  are,  no  doubt,  exceptions  among  some  six  hundred 
young  men,  some  firm  and  unbending  characters,  who  decline 
to  be  withdrawn  in  this  way  from  circulation.  I  know  some 
of  them ;  but  if  the  story  of  their  struggles  with  men  and 
things  could  be  told  in  full ;  if  it  were  known  how  that,  while 
full  of  useful  projects  and  ideas  which  would  put  life  and 
wealth  into  stagnant  country  districts,  they  meet  with  hin- 
drances put  in  their  way  by  the  very  men  who  (so  the  govern- 
ment led  them  to  believe)  would  give  them  help  and  counte- 
nance, the  strong  man,  the  man  of  talent,  the  man  whose 
nature  is  a  miracle,  would  be  thought  a  hundred  times  more 
unfortunate  and  more  to  be  pitied  than  the  man  whose  de- 
generate nature  tamely  resigns  himself  to  the  atrophy  of  his 
faculties. 

"  So  I  would  prefer  to  direct  some  private  commercial  or 
industrial  enterprise,  and  live  on  very  little,  while  trying  to 
find  a  solution  of  some  one  of  the  many  unsolved  problems 
of  industry  and  modern  life,  rather  than  remain  where  I  am. 
You  will  say  that  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  me  from  employ- 
ing my  powers  as  it  is ;  that  in  the  silence  of  this  humdrum 
life  I  might  set  myself  to  find  the  solution  of  one  of  those 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  201 

problems  which  presses  on  humanity.  Ah  !  monsieur,  do  you 
not  understand  what  the  influence  of  the  provinces  is;  the 
enervating  effect  of  a  life  just  sufficiently  busy  to  fill  the  days 
with  all  but  futile  work,  but  yet  not  full  enough  to  give  occu- 
pation to  the  powers  so  fully  developed  by  such  a  training  as 
ours  ?  You  will  not  think,  my  dear  guardian,  that  I  am  eaten  up 
with  the  ambition  of  money-making  or  consumed  with  a  mad 
desire  for  fame.  I  have  not  learned  to  calculate  to  so  little 
purpose  that  I  cannot  measure  the  emptiness  of  fame.  The 
inevitable  activity  of  life  has  led  me  not  to  think  of  mar- 
riage J  and  looking  at  my  present  prospects,  I  have  not  so 
good  an  opinion  of  existence  as  to  give  such  a  sorry  present 
to  another  self.  Although  I  look  upon  money  as  one  of  the 
most  powerful  instruments  that  can  be  put  in  the  hands  of  a 
civilized  man,  money  is,  after  all,  only  a  means.  My  sole 
pleasure  lies  in  the  assurance  that  I  am  serving  my  country. 
To  have  employment  for  my  faculties  in  a  congenial  atmo- 
sphere would  be  the  height  of  enjoyment  for  me.  Perhaps 
among  your  acquaintance  in  your  part  of  the  world,  in  the 
circle  on  which  you  shine,  you  might  hear  of  something  which 
requires  some  of  the  aptitude  which  you  know  that  I  possess ; 
I  will  wait  six  months  for  an  answer  from  you. 

"  These  things  which  I  am  writing  to  you,  dear  patron  and 
friend,  others  are  thinking.  I  have  seen  a  good  many  of  my 
colleagues  or  old  scholars  at  the  Ecole  caught,  as  I  was,  in 
the  snare  of  a  special  training  ;  ordnance  surveyors,  captain- 
professors,  captains  in  the  artillery,  doomed  (as  they  see)  to 
be  captains  for  the  rest  of  their  days,  bitterly  regretting  that 
they  did  not  go  into  the  regular  army.  Again  and  again,  in 
fact,  we  have  admitted  to  each  other  in  confidence  that  we  are 
victims  of  a  long  mystification,  which  we  only  discover  when 
it  is  too  late  to  draw  back,  when  the  mill-horse  is  used  to  the 
round  and  the  sick  man  accustomed  to  his  disease. 

"After  looking  carefully  into  these  melancholy  results,  I 
have  asked  myself  the  following  questions,  which  I  send  to 


202  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

you,  as  a  man  of  sense,  whose  mature  wisdom  will  see  all  that 
lies  in  them,  knowing  that  they  are  fruit  of  thought  refined 
by  the  fires  of  painful  experience. 

"  What  end  has  the  government  in  view  ?  To  obtain  the 
best  abilities?  If  so,  the  government  sets  to  work  to  obtain 
a  directly  opposite  result :  if  it  had  hated  talent,  it  could  not 
have  had  better  success  in  producing  respectable  mediocri- 
ties. Or  does  it  intend  to  open  out  a  career  to  selected 
intelligence  ?  It  could  not  well  have  given  it  a  more  mediocre 
position.  There  is  not  a  man  sent  out  by  the  Ecoles  who  does 
not  regret  between  fifty  and  sixty  that  he  fell  into  the  snare 
concealed  by  the  offers  of  the  government.  Does  it  mean 
to  secure  men  of  genius?  What  really  great  man  have  the 
Ecoles  turned  out  since  1790?  Would  Cachin,  the  genius 
to  whom  we  owe  Cherbourg,  have  existed  but  for  Napoleon  ? 
It  was  imperial  despotism  which  singled  him  out ;  the  Con- 
stitutional Administration  would  have  stifled  him.  Does  the 
Acaddmie  des  Sciences  number  many  members  who  have  passed 
through  the  technical  schools  ?  Two  or  three,  it  may  be  ;  but 
the  man  of  genius  invariably  appears  from  outside.  In  the 
particular  sciences  which  are  studied  at  these  schools,  genius 
obeys  no  laws  but  its  own ;  it  only  develops  under  circum- 
stances over  which  we  have  no  control ;  and  neither  the 
government  nor  anthropology  knows  the  conditions.  Riquet, 
Perronet,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Cachin,  Palladio,  Brunelleschi, 
Michel  Angelo,  Bramante,  Vauban,  and  Vicat  all  derived  their 
genius  from  unobserved  causes  and  preparation  to  which  we 
give  the  name  of  chance — the  great  word  for  fools  to  fall  back 
upon.  Schools  or  no  schools,  these  sublime  workers  have 
never  been  lacking  in  every  age.  And  now,  does  the  govern- 
ment, by  means  of  organizing,  obtain  works  of  public  utility 
better  done  or  at  a  cheaper  rate  ? 

"In  the  first  place,  private  enterprise  does  very  well  with- 
out professional  engineers  ;  and,  in  the  second,  state-directed 
works  are  the  most  expensive  of  all  j  and  besides  the  actual 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  203 

outlay,  there  is  the  cost  of  the  maintenance  of  the  great  staff 
of  the  Roads  and  Bridges  Department.  Finall}',  in  other 
countries  where  they  have  no  institutions  of  this  kind,  in  Ger- 
many, England,  and  Italy,  such  public  works  are  carried  out 
quite  as  well,  and  cost  less  than  ours  in  France.  Each  of  the 
three  countries  is  well  known  for  new  and  useful  inventions 
of  this  kind.  I  know  it  is  the  fashion  to  speak  of  our  Ecoles 
as  if  they  were  the  envy  of  Europe ;  but  Europe  has  been 
watching  us  these  fifteen  years,  and  nowhere  will  you  find  the 
like  instituted  elsewhere.  The  English,  those  shrewd  men  of 
business,  have  better  schools  among  their  working  classes, 
where  they  train  practical  men,  who  become  conspicuous  at 
once  when  tl"^ey  rise  from  practical  work  to  theory.  Stephen- 
son and  Macadam  were  not  pupils  in  these  famous  institutions 
of  ours. 

"  But  where  is  the  use  ?  When  young  and  clever  engineers, 
men  of  spirit  and  enthusiasm,  have  solved  at  the  outset  of 
their  career  the  problem  of  the  maintenance  of  the  roads 
of  France,  which  requires  hundreds  of  millions  of  francs 
every  twenty-five  years,  which  roads  are  in  a  deplorable  state, 
it  is  in  vain  for  them  to  publish  learned  treatises  and  memo- 
rials; everything  is  swallowed  down  by  the  board  of  direction, 
everything  goes  in  and  nothing  comes  out  of  a  central  bureau 
in  Paris,  where  the  old  men  are  jealous  of  their  juniors,  and 
high-places  are  refuges  for  superannuated  blunderers. 

"This  is  how,  with  a  body  of  educated  men  distributed  all 
over  France,  a  body  which  is  part  of  the  machinery  of  admin- 
istrative government,  and  to  wliom  the  country  looks  for 
direction  and  enlightenment  on  the  great  questions  within 
their  department,  it  will  probably  happen  that  we  in  France 
shall  still  be  talking  about  railways  when  other  countries  have 
finished  theirs.  Now,  if  ever  France  ought  to  demonstrate 
the  excellence  of  her  technical  schools  as  an  institution, 
should  it  not  be  in  a  magnificent  public  work  of  this  special 
kind,  destined  to  change  the  face  of  many  countries,  and  to 


\ 


204  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

double  the  length  of  human  life  by  modifying  the  laws  of 
time  and  space  ?  Belgium,  the  United  States,  Germany,  and 
England,  without  an  Ecole  Polytechnique,  will  have  a  network 
of  railways  while  our  engineers  are  still  tracing  out  the  plans, 
and  hideous  jobbery  lurking  behind  the  projects  will  check 
their  execution.  You  cannot  lay  a  stone  in  France  until  half 
a  score  of  scribblers  in  Paris  have  drawn  up  a  driveling 
report  that  nobody  wants.  The  government,  therefore,  gets 
no  good  of  its  technical  schools ;  and  as  for  the  individual 
— he  is  tied  down  to  a  mediocre  career,  his  life  is  a  cruel 
delusion.  Certain  it  is  that  with  the  abilities  which  he  dis- 
played between  the  ages  of  sixteen  and  twenty-five  he  would 
have  gained  more  reputation  and  riches  if  he  had  been  left  to 
shift  for  himself  than  he  will  acquire  in  the  career  to  which 
government  condemns  him.  As  a  merchant,  a  scientific  man, 
or  a  soldier,  this  picked  man  would  have  a  wide  field  before 
him,  his  precious  faculties  and  enthusiasm  would  not  have 
been  prematurely  and  stupidly  exhausted.  Then  where  is  the 
advance  ?  Assuredly  the  individual  and  the  state  both  lose  by 
the  present  system.  Does  not  an  experiment  carried  on  for 
half  a  century  show  that  changes  are  needed  in  the  way  the 
institution  is  worked  ?  What  priesthood  qualifies  a  man  for 
the  task  of  selecting  from  a  whole  generation  those  who  shall 
hereafter  be  the  learned  class  of  France?  What  studies 
should  not  these  high-priests  of  destiny  have  made  ?  A 
knowledge  of  mathematics  is,  perhaps,  scarcely  so  necessary 
as  physiological  knowledge  ;  and  does  it  not  seem  to  you  that 
something  of  that  clairvoyance  which  is  the  wizardry  of  great 
men  might  be  required  too  ?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  exam- 
iners are  old  professors,  men  worthy  of  all  honor,  grown  old 
in  harness  j  their  duty  it  is  to  discover  the  best  memories,  and 
there  is  an  end  of  it ;  they  can  do  nothing  but  what  is 
required  of  them.  Truly,  their  functions  should  be  the  most 
important  ones  in  the  state,  and  call  for  extraordinary  men  to 
fulfill  them. 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONTEGNAC.  205 

"  Do  not  think,  my  dear  friend  and  patron,  that  my  censure 
is  confined  to  the  Ecole  through  which  I  myself  passed  ;  it 
applies  not  only  to  the  institution  itself,  but  also  and  still 
more  to  the  methods  by  which  lads  are  admitted ;  that  is  to 
say,  to  the  system  of  competitive  examination.  Competition 
is  a  modern  invention,  and  essentially  bad.  It  is  bad  not 
only  in  learning,  but  in  every  possible  connection,  in  the  arts, 
in  every  election  made  of  men,  projects,  or  things.  It  is 
unfortunate  that  our  famous  schools  should  not  have  turned 
out  better  men  than  any  other  chance  assemblage  of  lads;  but 
it  is  still  more  disgraceful  that  among  the  prizemen  at  the 
institute  there  has  been  no  great  painter,  musician,  architect, 
or  sculptor ;  even  as  for  the  past  twenty  years  the  general 
elections  have  swept  no  single  great  statesman  to  the  front  out 
of  all  the  shoals  of  mediocrities.  My  remarks  have  a  bearing 
upon  an  error  which  is  vitiating  both  politics  and  education  in 
France.  This  cruel  error  is  based  on  the  following  principle, 
which  organizers  have  overlooked  : 

"  *  Nothing  in  experience  or  in  the  nature  of  things  can  war- 
rant the  assumption  that  the  intellectual  qualities  of  early  man- 
hood will  be  those  of  maturity. ' 

**  At  the  present  time  I  have  been  brought  in  contact  with 
several  distinguished  men  who  are  studying  the  many  moral 
maladies  which  prey  upon  France.  They  recognize,  as  I  do, 
the  fact  that  secondary  education  forces  a  sort  of  temporary 
capacity  in  those  who  have  neither  present  work  nor  future 
prospects ;  and  that  the  enlightenment  diffused  by  primary 
education  is  of  no  advantage  to  the  state,  because  it  is  bereft 
of  belief  and  sentiment. 

**  Our  whole  educational  system  calls  for  sweeping  reform, 
which  should  be  carried  out  under  the  direction  of  a  man  of 
profound  knowledge,  a  man  with  a  strong  will,  gifted  with 
that  legislative  faculty  which,  possibly,  is  found  in  Jean- 
Jacques  Rousseau  alone  of  all  modems. 

"Then,  perhaps,  the  superfluous  specialists  might  find  em- 


206  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

ployment  in  elementary  teaching;  it  is  badly  needed  by  the 
mass  of  the  people.  We  have  not  enough  patient  and  devoted 
teachers  for  the  training  of  these  classes.  The  deplorable  preva- 
lence of  crimes  and  misdemeanors  points  to  a  weak  spot  in  our 
social  system — the  one-sided  education  which  tends  to  weaken 
the  fabric  of  society,  by  teaching  the  masses  to  think  suffi- 
ciently to  reject  the  religious  beliefs  necessary  for  their  govern- 
ment, yet  not  enough  to  raise  them  to  a  conception  of  the 
theory  of  obedience  and  duty,  which  is  the  last  word  of 
transcendental  philosophy.  It  is  impossible  to  put  a  whole 
nation  through  a  course  of  Kant ;  and  belief  and  use  and 
wont  are  more  wholesome  for  the  people  than  study  and  argu- 
ment. 

"  If  I  had  to  begin  again  from  the  very  beginning,  I  dare 
say  I  might  enter  a  seminary  and  incline  to  the  life  of  a  simple 
country  parson  or  a  village  schoolmaster.  But  now  I  have 
gone  too  far  to  be  a  mere  elementary  teacher ;  and,  besides,  a 
wider  field  of  action  is  open  to  me  than  the  schoolhouse  or 
the  parish.  I  cannot  go  the  whole  way  with  the  Saint-Simon- 
ians,  with  whom  I  am  tempted  to  throw  in  my  lot ;  but  with 
all  their  mistakes,  they  have  laid  a  finger  on  many  weak  points 
in  our  social  system,  the  results  of  our  legislation,  which  will 
be  palliated  rather  than  remedied — simply  putting  off  the  evil 
day  for  France.  Good-bye,  dear  sir;  in  spite  of  these  ob- 
servations of  mine,  rest  assured  of  my  respectful  and  faithful 
friendship,  a  friendship  which  can  only  grow  with  time. 

"Gr^goire  Gerard." 

Acting  on  old  business  habit,  Grossetdte  had  indorsed  the 
letter  with  the  rough  draft  of  a  reply,  and  written  beneath  it 
the  sacramental  word  "  Answered." 

"  Mv  DEAR  GfeRARD : — It  is  the  more  unnecessary  to  enter 
upon  any  discussion  of  the  observations  contained  in  your 
letter,  since  that  chance  (to  make  use  of  the  word  for  fools) 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  207 

enables  me  to  make  you  an  offer  which  will  practically  extricate 
you  from  a  position  in  which  you  find  yourself  so  ill  at  ease. 
Mme.  Graslin,  who  owns  the  forest  of  Montegnac,  and  a  good 
deal  of  barren  land  below  the  long  range  of  hills  on  which 
the  forest  lies,  has  a  notion  of  turning  her  vast  estates  to  some 
account,  of  exploiting  the  woods  and  bringing  the  stony 
land  into  cultivation.  Small  pay  and  plenty  of  work !  A 
great  result  to  be  brought  about  by  insignificant  means,  a 
district  to  be  transformed  !  Abundance  made  to  spring  up  on 
the  barest  rock !  Is  not  this  what  you  wished  to  do,  you 
who  would  fain  realize  a  poet's  dream  ?  From  the  sincere 
ring  of  your  letter,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  ask  you  to  come  to 
Limoges  to  see  me,  but  do  not  send  in  your  resignation,  my 
friend,  only  sever  your  connection  with  your  corps,  explain  to 
the  authorities  that  you  are  about  to  make  a  study  of  some  prob- 
lems that  lie  within  your  province,  but  outside  the  limits  of 
your  work  for  the  government.  In  that  way  you  will  lose 
none  of  your  privileges,  and  you  will  gain  time  in  which  to 
decide  whether  this  scheme  of  the  cure's  at  Montegnac,  which 
finds  favor  in  Mme.  Graslin' s  eyes,  is  a  feasible  one.  If 
these  vast  changes  should  prove  to  be  practicable,  I  will  lay 
the  possible  advantages  before  you  by  word  of  mouth,  and 
not  by  letter.     Believe  me  to  be  always  sincerely  your  friend, 

"Grossetete." 

For  all  reply  Mme.  Graslin  wrote  : 

**  Thank  you,  my  friend  \  I  am  waiting  to  see  your 
protege." 

She  showed  the  letter  to  M.  Bonnet,  with  the  remark, 
**  Here  is  one  more  wounded  creature  seeking  the  great 
hospital !  " 

The  cur6  read  the  letter  and  re-read  it,  took  two  or  three 
turns  upon  the  terrace,  and  handed  the  paper  back  to  Mme. 
Graslin. 


208  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"  It  comes  from  a  noble  nature,  the  man  has  something  in 
him,"  he  said.  "  He  writes  that  the  schools,  invented  by  the 
spirit  of  the  Revolution,  manufacture  inaptitude  ;  for  my  own 
part,  I  call  them  manufactories  of  unbelief;  for  if  M.  Gerard 
is  not  an  atheist,  he  is  a  Protestant " 

"  We  will  ask  him,"  she  said,  struck  with  the  cure's  answer. 

A  fortnight  later,  in  the  month  of  December,  M.  Gros- 
setSte  came  to  Mont6gnac,  in  spite  of  the  cold,  to  introduce 
his  prot6g6.  V^ronique  and  M.  Bonnet  awaited  his  arrival 
with  impatience. 

"One  must  love  you  very  much,  my  child,"  said  the  old 
man,  taking  both  of  Veronique's  hands,  and  kissing  them 
with  the  old-fashioned  elderly  gallantry  which  a  woman  never 
takes  amiss ;  "  yes,  one  must  love  you  very  much  indeed  to 
stir  out  of  Limoges  in  such  weather  as  this;  but  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  that  I  must  come  in  person  to  make  you  a  present  of 
M.  Gr^goire  Gerard.  Here  he  is.  A  man  after  your  own 
heart,  M.  Bonnet,''  the  old  banker  added  with  an  affectionate 
greeting  to  the  cur6. 

Gerard's  appearance  was  not  very  prepossessing.  He  was 
a  thick-set  man  of  middle  height ;  his  neck  was  lost  in  his 
shoulders,  to  use  the  common  expression  ;  he  had  the  golden 
hair  and  red  eyes  of  an  Albino  ;  and  his  eyelashes  and  eye- 
brows were  almost  white.  Although,  as  often  happens  in 
these  cases,  his  complexion  was  dazzlingly  fair,  its  original 
beauty  was  destroyed  by  the  very  apparent  pits  and  seams  left 
by  an  attack  of  smallpox  ;  much  reading  had  doubtless  injured 
his  eyesight,  for  he  wore  colored  spectacles.  Nor  when  he 
divested  himself  of  a  thick  overcoat,  like  a  gendarme's,  did 
his  dress  redeem  these  personal  defects. 

The  way  in  which  his  clothes  were  put  on  and  buttoned, 
like  his  untidy  cravat  and  crumpled  shirt,  were  distinctive 
signs  of  that  personal  carelessness,  laid  to  the  charge  of 
learned  men,  who  are  all,  more  or  less,  oblivious  of  their  sur- 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  209 

roundings.  His  face  and  bearing,  the  great  development  of 
chest  and  shoulders,  as  compared  with  his  thin  legs,  suggested 
a  sort  of  physical  deterioration  produced  by  meditative 
habits,  not  uncommon  in  those  who  think  much ;  but  the 
stout  heart  and  eager  intelligence  of  the  writer  of  the  letter 
were  plainly  visible  on  a  forehead  which  might  have  been 
chiseled  in  Carrara  marble.  Nature  seemed  to  have  reserved 
her  seal  of  greatness  for  the  brow,  and  stamped  it  with  the 
steadfastness  and  goodness  of  the  man.  The  nose  was  of  the 
true  Gallic  type,  and  blunted.  The  firm,  straight  lines  of  the 
mouth  indicated  an  absolute  discretion  and  the  sense  of 
economy ;  but  the  whole  face  looked  old  before  its  time,  and 
worn  with  study. 

Mme.  Graslin  turned  to  speak  to  the  inventor.  "  We 
already  owe  you  thanks,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "  for  being  so 
good  as  to  come  to  superintend  engineering  work  in  a  country 
which  can  hold  out  no  inducements  to  you  save  the  satisfac- 
tion of  knowing  that  you  can  do  good." 

"  M.  Grossetgte  told  me  enough  about  you  on  our  way 
here,  madame,"  he  answered,  "  to  make  me  feel  very  glad  to 
be  of  any  use  to  you.  The  prospect  of  living  near  to  you  and 
M.  Bonnet  seemed  to  be  charming.  Unless  I  am  driven 
away,  I  look  to  spend  my  life  here." 

"  We  will  try  to  give  you  no  cause  for  changing  your 
opinion,"  said  Mme.  Graslin. 

Grossetgte  took  her  aside.  "  Here  are  the  papers  which  the 
public  prosecutor  gave  me,"  he  said.  "He  seemed  very 
much  surprised  that  you  did  not  apply  directly  to  him.  All 
that  you  have  asked  has  been  done  promptly  and  with  good- 
will. In  the  first  place,  your  prot6g6  will  be  reinstated  in  all  _ 
his  rights  as  a  citizen  ;  and,  in  the  second,  Catherine  Curieux ' 
will  be  sent  to  you  in  three  months'  time." 

**  Where  is  she  ?  "  asked  Veronique. 

"  At  the  Hopital  Saint-Louis,"  Grossetgte  answered.    "  She 
cannot  leave  Paris  until  she  is  recovered." 
14 


210  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"  Ah  !  is  she  ill,  poor  thing?  " 

"You  will  find  all  that  you  want  to  know  here,"  said 
Grossetete,  holding  out  a  packet. 

Veronique  went  back  to  her  guests,  and  led  the  way  to  the 
magnificent  dining-hall  on  the  ground  floor,  walking  between 
Grossetete  and  Gerard.  She  presided  over  the  dinner  with- 
out joining  them,  for  she  had  made  it  a  rule  to  take  her 
meals  alone  since  she  had  come  to  Montegnac.  No  one  but 
Aline  was  in  the  secret,  which  the  girl  kept  scrupulously  until 
her  mistress  was  in  danger  of  her  life. 

The  mayor  of  Montegnac,  the  justice  of  the  peace,  and  the 
doctor  had  naturally  been  invited  to  meet  the  newcomer. 

The  doctor,  a  young  man  of  seven-and-twenty,  Roubaud 
by  name,  was  keenly  desirous  of  making  the  acquaintance  of 
the  great  lady  of  Limousin,  The  cure  was  the  better  pleased 
to  introduce  him  at  the  chateau  since  it  was  M.  Bonnet's  wish 
that  Veronique  should  gather  some  sort  of  society  about  her, 
to  distract  her  thoughts  from  herself,  and  to  find  some  mental 
food.  Roubaud  was  one  of  the  young  doctors  perfectly 
equipped  in  his  science,  such  as  the  Ecole  de  Medecine  turns 
out  in  Paris,  a  man  who  might,  without  doubt,  have  looked 
to  a  brilliant  future  in  the  vast  theatre  of  the  capital ;  but  he 
had  seen  something  of  the  strife  of  ambitions  there,  and  took 
fright,  conscious  that  he  had  more  knowledge  than  capacity 
for  scheming,  more  aptitude  than  greed ;  his  gentle  nature 
had  inclined  him  to  the  narrower  theatre  of  provincial  life, 
where  he  hoped  to  win  appreciation  sooner  than  in  Paris. 

At  Limoges  Roubaud  had  come  into  collision  with  old- 
fashioned  ways  and  patients  not  to  be  shaken  in  their  preju- 
dices ;  he  had  been  won  over  by  M.  Bonnet,  who  at  sight  of 
the  kindly  and  prepossessing  face  had  thought  that  here  was 
a  worker  to  co-operate  with  him.  Roubaud  was  short  and 
fair-haired,  and  would  have  been  rather  uninteresting  looking 
but  for  the  gray  eyes,  which  revealed  the  physiologist's 
sagacity  and  the  perseverance  of   the  student.     Hitherto 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONTEGNAC.  211 

Montegnac  was  fain  to  be  content  with  an  old  army  surgeon, 
who  found  his  cellars  a  good  deal  more  interesting  than  his 
patients,  and  who,  moreover,  was  past  the  hard  work  of  a 
country  doctor.  He  happened  to  die  just  at  that  time. 
Roubaud  had  been  in  Montegnac  for  some  eighteen  months, 
and  was  very  popular  there;  but  Desplein's  young  disciple, 
one  of  the  followers  of  Cabanis,  was  no  Catholic  in  his 
beliefs.  In  fact,  as  to  religion,  he  had  lapsed  into  a  fatal 
indifference,  from  which  he  was  not  to  be  roused.  He  was 
the  despair  of  the  cure,  not  that  there  was  any  harm  whatever 
in  him,  his  invariable  absence  from  church  was  excused  by  his 
profession,  he  never  talked  on  religious  topics,  he  was  incapa- 
ble of  making  proselytes,  no  good  Catholic  could  have  be- 
haved better  than  he,  but  he  declined  to  occupy  himself  with 
a  problem  which,  to  his  thinking,  was  beyond  the  scope  of  the 
human  mind ;  and  the  cure  once  hearing  him  let  fall  the 
remark  that  Pantheism  was  the  religion  of  all  great  thinkers, 
fancied  that  Roubaud  inclined  to  the  Pythagorean  doctrine 
of  the  transformation  of  souls. 

Roubaud,  meeting  Mme.  Graslin  for  the  first  time,  felt  vio- 
lently startled  at  the  sight  of  her.  His  medical  knowledge 
enabled  him  to  divine  in  her  face  and  bearing  and  worn  fea- 
tures unheard-of  suffering  of  mind  and  body,  a  preternatural 
strength  of  character,  and  the  great  faculties  which  can  endure 
the  strain  of  very  different  vicissitudes.  He,  in  a  manner, 
read  her  inner  history,  even  the  dark  places  deliberately  hid- 
den away ;  and  more  than  this,  he  saw  the  disease  that  preyed 
upon  the  secret  heart  of  this  fair  woman  ;  for  there  are  certain 
tints  in  human  faces  that  indicate  a  poison  working  in  the 
thoughts,  even  as  the  color  of  fruit  will  betray  the  presence 
of  the  worm  at  its  core.  From  that  time  forward  M.  Roubaud 
felt  so  strongly  attracted  to  Mme.  Graslin,  that  he  feared  to 
be  drawn  beyond  the  limit  where  friendship  ends.  There  was 
an  eloquence,  which  men  always  understand,  in  Veronique's 
brows  and  attitude,  and,  above  all,  in  her  eyes ;  it  was  suffi- 


212  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

ciently  unmistakable  that  she  was  dead  to  love,  even  as  other 
women  with  a  like  eloquence  proclaim  the  contrary.  The 
doctor  became  her  chivalrous  worshiper  on  the  spot.  He 
exchanged  a  swift  glance  with  the  cur6,  and  M.  Bonnet  said 
within  himself — 

"Here  is  the  flash  from  heaven  that  will  change  this 
poor  unbeliever?  Mrae.  Graslin  will  have  more  eloquence 
than  I." 

The  mayor,  an  old  countryman,  overawed  by  the  splendor 
of  the  dining-room,  and  surprised  to  be  asked  to  meet  one  of 
the  richest  men  in  the  department,  had  put  on  his  best  clothes 
for  the  occasion;  he  felt  somewhat  uneasy  in  them,  and 
scarcely  more  at  ease  with  his  company.  Mme.  Graslin,  too, 
in  her  mourning  dress  was  an  awe-inspiring  figure  ;  the  worthy 
mayor  was  dumb.  He  had  once  been  a  farmer  at  Saint- 
Leonard,  had  bought  the  one  habitable  house  in  the  township, 
and  cultivated  the  land  that  belonged  to  it  himself.  He  could 
read  and  write,  but  only  managed  to  acquit  himself  in  his 
official  capacity  with  the  help  of  the  justice's  clerk,  who  pre- 
pared his  work  for  him ;  so  he  ardently  desired  the  advent  of 
a  notary,  meaning  to  lay  the  burden  of  his  public  duties  on 
official  shoulders  when  that  day  should  come ;  but  Mont^gnac 
was  so  poverty-stricken  that  a  resident  notary  was  hardly 
needed,  and  the  notaries  of  the  principal  place  in  the  arron- 
dissement  found  clients  in  Mont6gnac. 

The  justice  of  the  peace,  Clousier  by  name,  was  a  retired 
barrister  from  Limoges.  Briefs  had  grown  scarce  with  the 
learned  gentleman,  owing  to  a  tendency  on  his  part  to  put  in 
practice  the  noble  maxim  that  a  barrister  is  the  first  judge  of 
the  client  and  the  case.  About  the  year  1809  he  obtained 
this  appointment ;  the  salary  was  a  meagre  pittance,  but 
enough  to  live  upon.  In  this  way  he  had  reached  the  most 
honorable  but  the  most  complete  penury.  Twenty-two  years 
of  residence  in  the  poor  commune  had  transformed  the  worthy 
lawyer  into  a  countryman,  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT£gA'AC.  213 

any  of  the  small  farmers  round  about,  whom  he  resembled 
even  in  the  cut  of  his  coat.  But  beneath  Clousier's  homely 
exterior  dwelt  a  clairvoyant  spirit,  a  philosophical  politician 
whose  Gallio's  attitude  was  due  to  his  perfect  knowledge  of 
human  nature  and  of  men's  motives.  For  a  long  time  he  had 
baffled  M.  Bonnet's  perspicacity.  The  man  who,  in  a  higher 
sphere,  might  have  played  the  active  part  of  a  L'Hopital,  in- 
capable of  intrigue,  like  all  deep  thinkers,  had  come  at  last 
to  lead  the  contemplative  life  of  a  hermit  of  olden  time. 
Rich  without  doubt  with  all  the  gains  of  privation,  he  was 
swayed  by  no  personal  considerations ;  he  knew  the  law,  and 
judged  impartially.  His  life,  reduced  to  the  barest  neces- 
saries, was  regular  and  pure.  The  peasants  loved  and  re- 
spected M.  Clousier  for  the  fatherly  disinterestedness  with 
which  he  settled  their  disputes  and  gave  advice  in  even  their 
smallest  difficulties.  For  the  last  two  years  "  Old  Clousier," 
as  every  one  called  him  in  Montegnac,  had  had  one  of  his 
nephews  to  help  him,  a  rather  intelligent  young  man,  who,  at 
a  later  day,  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  prosperity  of  the 
commune. 

The  most  striking  thing  about  the  old  man's  face  was  the 
broad  vast  forehead.  Two  bushy  masses  of  white  hair  stood 
out  on  either  side  of  it.  A  florid  complexion  and  magiste- 
rial portliness  might  give  the  impression  that  (in  spite  of  his 
real  sobriety)  he  was  as  earnest  a  disciple  of  Bacchus  as  of 
Troplong  and  Toullier.  His  scarcely  audible  voice  indicated 
asthmatic  oppression  of  breathing ;  possibly  the  dry  air  of 
Montegnac  had  counted  for  something  in  his  decision  when 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  accept  the  post.  His  little  house  had 
been  fitted  up  for  him  by  the  well-to-do  sabot-maker,  his  land- 
lord. 

Clousier  had  already  seen  Veronique  at  the  church,  and 
had  formed  his  own  opinion  of  her,  which  opinion  he  kept  to 
himself;  he  had  not  even  spoken  of  her  to  M.  Bonnet,  with 
whom  he  was  beginning  to  feel  at  home.     For  the  first  time  in 


214  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

his  life,  the  justice  of  the  peace  found  himself  in  the  company 
of  persons  able  to  understand  him. 

When  the  six  guests  had  taken  their  places  round  a  hand- 
somely-appointed table  (for  Veronique  had  brought  all  her 
furniture  with  her  to  Montegnac),  there  was  a  brief  embar- 
rassed pause.  The  doctor,  the  mayor,  and  the  justice  were 
none  of  them  acquainted  with  Grossetete  or  with  Gerard. 
But  during  the  first  course  the  banker's  geniality  thawed  the 
ice,  Mrae.  Graslin  graciously  encouraged  M.  Roubaud  and 
drew  out  Gerard ;  under  her  influence  all  these  different 
natures,  full  of  exquisite  qualities,  recognized  their  kinship. 
It  was  not  long  before  each  felt  himself  to  be  in  a  congenial 
atmosphere.  So  that  by  the  time  dessert  was  put  on  the  table, 
and  the  crystal  and  the  gilded  edges  of  the  porcelain  sparkled, 
when  choice  wines  were  set  in  circulation,  handed  to  the 
guests  by  Aline,  Maurice  Champion,  and  Grosset^te's  man, 
the  conversation  had  become  more  confidential,  so  that  the  four 
noble  natures  thus  brought  together  by  chance  felt  free  to 
speak  their  real  minds  on  the  great  subjects  that  men  love  to 
discuss  in  good  faith. 

"  Your  leave  of  absence  coincided  with  the  Revolution  of 
July,"  Grossetete  said,  looking  at  Geard  in  a  way  that  asked 
his  opinion. 

*' Yes,"  answered  the  engineer.  "I  was  in  Paris  during 
the  three  famous  days ;  I  saw  it  all ;  I  drew  some  disheart- 
ening conclusions." 

"  What  were  they  ?  "  M.  Bonnet  asked  quickly. 

"There  is  no  patriotism  left  except  under  the  workman's 
shirt,"  answered  Gerard.  "  Therein  lies  the  ruin  of  France. 
The  Revolution  of  July  is  the  defeat  of  men  who  are  notable 
for  birth,  fortune,  and  talent,  and  a  defeat  in  which  they 
acquiesce.  The  enthusiastic  zeal  of  the  masses  has  gained  a 
victory  over  the  rich  and  intelligent  classes,  to  whom  zeal  and 
enthusiasm  are  antipathetic." 

"To  judge  by  last  year's  events,"  added  M.  Clousier,  "the 


MADAME  GRASLIN  AT  MONTEGNAC.  215 

change  is  a  direct  encouragement  to  the  evil  which  is  devour- 
ing us — to  individualism.  In  fifty  years'  time  every  generous 
question  will  be  replaced  by  a  *  What  is  that  to  me?^  the 
watchword  of  independent  opinion  descended  from  the  spiri- 
tual heights  where  Luther,  Calvin,  Zwingle,  and  Knox  inau- 
gurated it,  till  even  in  political  economy  each  has  a  right  to 
his  own  opinion.  Each  for  himself  !  Let  each  man  mind  his 
own  business  ! — these  two  terrible  phrases,  together  with  What 
is  that  to  me  ?  complete  a  trinity  of  doctrine  for  the  bour- 
geoisie and  the  peasant  proprietors.  This  egoism  is  the  result 
of  defects  in  our  civil  legislation,  somewhat  too  hastily  accom- 
plished in  the  first  instance,  and  now  confirmed  by  the  terrible 
consecration  of  the  Revolution  of  July." 

The  justice  relapsed  into  his  wonted  silence  again  with  this 
speech,  which  gave  the  guests  plenty  to  think  over.  Then  M. 
Bonnet  ventured  yet  further,  encouraged  by  Clousier's  re- 
marks, and  by  a  glance  exchanged  between  Gerard  and 
Grosset^te. 

"Good  King  Charles  X.,"  said  he,  "has  just  failed  in  the 
most  provident  and  salutary  enterprise  that  king  ever  under- 
took for  the  happiness  of  a  nation  intrusted  to  him.  The 
Church  should  be  proud  of  the  share  she  had  in  his  councils. 
But  it  was  the  heart  and  brain  of  the  upper  classes  which  failed 
him,  as  they  had  failed  before  over  the  great  question  of  the 
law  with  regard  to  the  succession  of  the  eldest  son,  the  eternal 
honor  of  the  one  bold  statesman  of  the  Restoration — the 
Comte  de  Peyronnet.  To  reconstruct  the  nation  on  the  basis 
of  the  family,  to  deprive  the  press  of  its  power  to  do  harm 
without  restricting  its  usefulness,  to  confine  the  elective  cham- 
ber to  the  functions  for  which  it  was  really  intended,  to  give 
back  to  religion  its  influence  over  the  people — such  were  the 
four  cardinal  points  of  the  domestic  policy  of  the  House  of 
Bourbon.  Well,  in  twenty  years'  time  all  France  will  see  the 
necessity  of  that  great  and  salutary  course.  King  Charles  X. 
was,  moreover,  more  insecure  in  the  position  which  he  decided 


216  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

to  quit  than  in  the  position  in  which  his  paternal  authority 
came  to  an  end.  The  future  history  of  our  fair  country,  when 
everything  shall  be  periodically  called  in  question,  when  cease- 
less discussion  shall  take  the  place  of  action,  when  the  press 
shall  become  the  sovereign  power  and  the  tool  of  the  basest 
ambitions,  will  prove  the  wisdom  of  the  king  who  has  just 
taken  with  him  the  real  principles  of  government.  History 
will  render  to  him  his  due  for  the  courage  with  which  he  with- 
stood his  best  friends,  when  once  he  had  probed  the  wound, 
seen  its  extent,  and  the  pressing  necessity  for  the  treatment, 
which  has  not  been  continued  by  those  for  whom  he  threw 
himself  into  the  breach." 

"Well,  M.  le  Cur6,  you  go  straight  to  the  point  without 
the  slightest  disguise,"  cried  M.  Gerard,  "but  I  do  not  say 
nay.  When  Napoleon  made  his  Russian  campaign  he  was 
forty  years  ahead  of  his  age;  he  was  misunderstood.  Russia 
and  England,  in  1830,  can  explain  the  campaign  of  181 2. 
Charles  X.  was  in  the  same  unfortunate  position  ;  twenty-five 
years  hence  his  ordinances  may  perhaps  become  law." 

"France,  too  eloquent  a  country  not  to  babble,  too  vain- 
glorious to  recognize  real  ability,  in  spite  of  the  sublime  good 
sense  of  her  language  and  the  mass  of  her  people,  is  the  very 
last  country  in  which  to  introduce  the  system  of  two  deliber- 
ating chambers,"  the  justice  of  the  peace  remarked.  "At 
any  rate,  not  without  the  admirable  safeguards  against  these 
elements  in  the  national  character,  devised  by  Napoleon's 
experience.  The  representative  system  may  work  in  a  country 
like  England,  where  its  action  is  circumscribed  by  the  nature 
of  the  soil ;  but  the  right  of  primogeniture,  as  applied  to  real 
estate,  is  a  necessary  part  of  it ;  without  this  factor,  the  repre- 
sentative system  becomes  sheer  nonsense.  England  owes  its 
existence  to  the  quasi-feudal  law  which  transmitted  the  house 
and  lands  to  the  oldest  son.  Russia  is  firmly  seated  on  the 
feudal  system  of  autocracy.  For  these  reasons,  both  nations 
at  the  present  day  are  making  alarming  progress.     Austria 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  217 

could  not  have  resisted  our  invasions  as  she  did,  nor  declared 
a  second  war  against  Napoleon,  had  it  not  been  for  the  law  of 
primogeniture,  which  preserves  the  strength  of  the  family  and 
maintains  production  on  the  large  scale  necessary  to  the  state. 
The  House  of  Bourbon,  conscious  that  liberalism  had  relegated 
France  to  the  rank  of  a  third-rate  power  in  Europe,  deter- 
mined to  regain  and  keep  their  place,  and  the  country  shook 
off  the  Bourbons  when  they  had  all  but  saved  the  country.  I 
do  not  know  how  deep  the  present  state  of  things  will  sink  us." 

"If  there  should  be  a  war,"  cried  Grosset^te,  "France 
will  be  without  horses,  as  Napoleon  was  in  1813,  when  he  was 
reduced  to  the  resources  of  France  alone,  and  could  not 
make  use  of  the  victories  of  Lutzen  and  Bautzen,  and  was 
crushed  at  Leipsic !  If  peace  continues,  the  evil  will  grow 
worse :  twenty  years  hence  the  number  of  horned  cattle  and 
horses  in  France  will  be  diminished  by  one-half." 

"M.  Grosset^te  is  right,"  said  Gerard,  "So  the  work 
which  you  have  decided  to  attempt  here  is  a  service  done  to 
your  country,  madame,"  he  added,  turning  to  Veronique. 

"Yes,"  said  the  justice  of  the  peace,  "because  Mme. 
Graslin  has  but  one  son.  But  will  this  chance  in  the  succes- 
sion repeat  itself?  For  a  certain  time,  let  us  hope,  the  great 
and  magnificent  scheme  of  cultivation  which  you  are  to 
carry  into  effect  will  be  in  the  hands  of  one  owner,  and  there- 
fore will  continue  to  provide  grazing  land  for  horses  and 
cattle.  But,  in  spite  of  all,  a  day  will  come  when  forest  and 
field  will  be  either  divided  up  or  sold  in  lots.  Division  and 
subdivision  will  follow,  until  the  six  thousand  acres  of  plain 
will  count  ten  or  twelve  hundred  owners ;  and  when  that  time 
comes  there  will  be  no  more  horses  nor  prize  cattle." 

"  Oh  !  when  that  time  comes "  said  the  mayor. 

"There  is  a  IVhat  is  thai  to  me?''  cried  M.  Grosset^te, 
"and  M.  Clousier  sounded  the  signal  for  it ;  he  is  caught  in 
the  act.  But,  monsieur,"  the  banker  went  on  gravely, 
addressing   the   bewildered   mayor,    "  the   time  has    come ! 


218  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Round  about  Paris  for  a  ten-league  radius,  the  land  is  divided 
up  into  little  patches  that  will  hardly  pasture  sufficient  milch 
cows.  The  commune  of  Argenteuil  numbers  thirty-eight 
thousand  eight  hundred  and  eighty-five  plots  of  land,  a  good 
many  of  them  bringing  in  less  than  fifteen  centimes  a  year ! 
If  it  were  not  for  high  farming  and  manure  from  Paris,  which 
give  heavy  crops  of  fodder  of  different  kinds,  I  do  not  know 
how  cow-keepers  and  dairymen  would  manage.  As  it  is,  the 
animals  are  peculiarly  subject  to  inflammatory  diseases  con- 
sequent on  the  heating  diet  and  confinement  to  cow-sheds. 
They  wear  out  their  cows  round  about  Paris  just  as  they  wear 
out  horses  in  the  streets.  Then  market-gardens,  orchards, 
nurseries,  and  vineyards  pay  so  much  better  than  pasture,  that 
the  grazing  land  is  gradually  diminishing.  A  few  years  more, 
and  milk  will  be  sent  in  by  express  to  Paris,  like  saltfish,  and 
what  is  going  on  round  Paris  is  happening  also  about  all  large 
towns.  The  evils  of  the  minute  subdivision  of  landed  prop- 
erty are  extending  round  a  hundred  French  cities ;  some  day 
all  France  will  be  eaten  up  by  them. 

"  In  1800,  according  to  Chaptal,  there  were  about  five 
million  acres  of  vineyard ;  exact  statistics  would  show  fully 
five  times  as  much  to-day.  When  Normandy  is  split  up  into 
an  infinitude  of  small  holdings,  by  our  system  of  inheritance 
fifty  per  cent,  of  the  horse  and  cattle  trade  there  will  fall  off; 
still  Normandy  will  have  the  monopoly  of  the  Paris  milk 
trade,  for  luckily  the  climate  will  not  permit  vine  culture. 
Another  curious  thing  to  notice  is  the  steady  rise  in  the  price 
of  butcher  meat.  In  1814,  prices  ranged  from  seven  to 
eleven  sous  per  pound  ;  in  1850,  twenty  years  hence,  Paris 
will  pay  twenty  sous,  unless  some  genius  is  raised  up  to  carry 
out  the  theories  of  Charles  X." 

"You  have  pointed  out  the  greatest  evil  in  France,"  said 
the  justice  of  the  peace.  "  The  cause  of  it  lies  in  the  chapter 
Des  Successions  in  the  Civil  Code,  wherein  the  equal  division 
of  real  estate  among  the  children  of  the  family  is  required. 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  219 

That  is  the  pestle  which  is  constantly  grinding  the  country 
to  powder,  gives  to  every  one  but  a  life-interest  in  property 
which  cannot  remain  as  it  is  after  his  death.  A  continuous 
process  of  decomposition  (for  the  reverse  process  is  never  set 
up)  will  end  by  ruining  France.  The  French  Revolution 
generated  a  deadly  virus,  and  the  Days  of  July  have  set  the 
poison  working  afresh ;  this  dangerous  germ  of  disease  is  the 
acquisition  of  land  by  peasants.  If  the  chapter  Des  Successions 
is  the  origin  of  the  evil,  it  is  through  the  peasant  that  it 
reaches  its  worst  phase.  The  peasant  never  relinquishes  the 
land  he  has  won.  Let  a  bit  of  land  once  get  between  the 
ogre's  ever-hungry  jaws,  he  divides  and  subdivides  it  until  there 
are  but  strips  of  three  furrows  left.  Nay,  even  there  he  does 
not  stop !  he  will  divide  the  three  furrows  in  lengths.  The 
commune  of  Argenteuil,  which  M.  Grosset^te  instanced  just 
now,  is  a  case  in  point.  The  preposterous  value  which  the 
peasants  set  on  the  smallest  scraps  of  land  makes  it  quite  im- 
possible to  reconstruct  an  estate.  The  law  and  procedure  are 
made  a  dead  letter  at  once  by  this  division,  and  ownership  is 
reduced  to  absurdity.  But  it  is  a  comparatively  trifling 
matter  that  the  minute  subdivision  of  the  law  should  paralyze 
the  treasury  and  the  law  by  making  it  impossible  to  carry  out 
its  wisest  regulations.  There  are  far  greater  evils  than  even 
these.  There  are  actually  landlords  of  property  bringing  in 
fifteen  and  twenty  centimes  per  annum  I 

"  Monsieur  has  just  said  something  about  the  falling  off 
of  cattle  and  horses,"  Clousier  continued,  looking  at  Gros- 
set^te;  "the  system  of  inheritance  counts  for  much  in  that 
matter.  The  peasant  proprietor  keeps  cows,  and  cows  only, 
because  milk  enters  into  his  diet;  he  sells  the  calves;  he  even 
sells  butter.  He  has  no  mind  to  raise  oxen,  still  less  to  breed 
horses;  he  has  only  just  sufficient  fodder  for  a  year's  consump- 
tion ;  and  when  a  dry  spring  comes  and  hay  is  scarce,  he  is 
forced  to  take  his  cow  to  market ;  he  cannot  afford  to  keep 
her.     If  it  should  fall  out   so  unluckily  that  two  bad   hay 


220  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

harvests  came  in  succession,  you  would  see  some  strange 
fluctuations  in  the  price  of  beef  in  Paris,  and,  above  all,  in 
veal,  when  the  third  year  came." 

"And  how  would  they  do  for  patriotic  banquets  then?" 
asked  the  doctor,  smiling. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Mme.  Graslin,  glancing  at  Roubaud, 
"so  even  here,  as  everywhere  else,  politics  must  be  served  up 
with  journalistic  items." 

"In  this  bad  business  the  bourgeoisie  play  the  part  of 
American  pioneers,"  continued  Clousier.  "  They  buy  up  the 
large  estates,  too  large  for  the  peasant  to  meddle  with,  and 
divide  them.  After  the  bulk  has  been  cut  up  and  triturated, 
a  forced  sale  or  an  ordinary  sale  in  lots  hands  it  over  sooner 
or  later  to  the  peasant.  Everything  nowadays  is  reduced  to 
figures,  and  I  know  of  none  more  eloquent  than  these: 
France  possesses  forty-nine  million  hectares  of  land,  for  the 
sake  of  convenience,  let  us  say  forty,  deducting  something  for 
roads  and  high-roads,  dunes,  canals,  land  out  of  cultivation, 
and  wastes  like  the  plain  of  Montegnac,  which  need  capital. 
Now,  out  of  forty  million  hectares  to  a  population  of  thirty- 
two  millions,  there  are  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  million 
parcels  of  land,  according  to  the  land-tax  returns.  I  have 
not  taken  the  fractions  into  account.  So  we  have  outrun  the 
agrarian  law,  and  yet  neither  poverty  nor  discord  are  at  an 
end.  Then  the  next  thing  will  be  that  those  who  are  turning 
the  land  into  crumbs  and  diminishing  the  output  of  produce 
will  find  mouthpieces  for  the  cry  that  true  social  justice  only 
permits  the  usufruct  of  the  land  to  each.  They  will  say  that 
ownership  in  perpetuity  is  robbery.  The  Saint-Si monians 
have  begun  already." 

"  There  spoke  the  magistrate,"  said  Grosset^te,  "  and  this 
is  what  the  banker  adds  to  his  bold  reflections.  When  landed 
property  became  tenable  by  peasants  and  small  shopkeepers,  a 
great  wrong  was  done  to  France,  though  the  government  does 
not  so  much  as  suspect  it.     Suppose  that  we  set  down  the 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONTJ^GNAC.  221 

whole  mass  of  the  peasants  at  three  million  families,  after 
deducting  the  paupers.  Those  families  all  belong  to  the  wage- 
earning  class.  Their  wages  are  paid  in  money  instead  of  in 
kind " 

"There  is  another  immense  blunder  in  our  legislation," 
Clousier  cried,  breaking  in  on  the  banker.  "In  1790  it 
might  still  have  been  possible  to  pass  a  law  empowering 
employers  to  pay  wages  in  kind,  but  now — to  introduce 
such  a  measure  would  be  to  risk  a  revolution." 

"In  this  way,"  Grossetdte  continued,  "the  money  of  the 
country  passes  into  the  pockets  of  the  proletariat.  Now,  the 
peasant  has  one  passion,  one  desire,  one  determination,  one 
aim  in  life — to  die  a  landed  proprietor.  This  desire,  as  M. 
Clousier  has  very  clearly  shown,  is  one  result  of  the  Revolu- 
tion— a  direct  consequence  of  the  sale  of  the  national  lands. 
Only  those  who  have  no  idea  of  the  state  of  things  in  country 
districts  could  refuse  to  admit  that  each  of  those  three  million 
families  annually  buries  fifty  francs  as  a  regular  thing,  and  in 
this  way  a  hundred  and  fifty  millions  of  francs  are  withdrawn 
from  circulation  every  year.  The  science  of  political  econ- 
omy has  reduced  to  an  axiom  the  statement  that  a  five-franc 
piece,  if  it  passes  through  a  hundred  hands  in  the  course  of  a 
day,  does  duty  for  five  hundred  francs.  Now,  it  is  certain  for 
some  of  us  old  observers  of  the  state  of  things  in  country 
districts  that  the  peasant  fixes  his  eyes  on  a  bit  of  land,  keeps 
ready  to  pounce  upon  it,  and  bides  his  time — meanwhile  he 
never  invests  his  capital.  The  intervals  in  the  peasant's  land- 
purchases  should,  therefore,  be  reckoned  at  periods  of  seven 
years.  For  seven  years,  consequently,  a  capital  of  eleven 
hundred  million  francs  is  lying  idle  in  the  peasants'  hands ; 
and  as  the  lower  middle  classes  do  the  same  thing  to  quite  the 
same  extent,  and  behave  in  the  same  way  with  regard  to 
land  on  too  large  a  scale  for  the  peasant  to  nibble  at,  in  forty- 
two  years  France  loses  the  interest  on  two  milliards  of  francs 
at  least — that  is  to  say,  on  something  like  a  hundred  millions 


222  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

every  seven  years,  or  six  hundred  millions  in  forty-two  years. 
But  this  is  not  the  only  loss.  France  has  failed  to  create  the 
worth  of  six  hundred  millions  in  agricultural  or  industrial 
produce.  And  this  failure  to  produce  may  be  taken  as  a  loss 
of  twelve  hundred  million  francs  ;  for  if  the  market  price  of 
a  product  were  not  double  the  actual  cost  of  production,  com- 
merce would  be  at  a  standstill.  The  proletariat  deprives  itself 
of  six  hundred  million  francs  of  wages.  These  six  hundred 
millions  of  initial  loss  that  represent,  for  an  economist, 
twelve  hundred  millions  of  loss  of  benefit  derived  from  circu- 
lation, explain  how  it  is  that  our  commerce,  shipping  trade, 
and  agriculture  compare  so  badly  with  the  state  of  things  in 
England.  In  spite  of  the  differences  between  the  two  countries 
(a  good  two-thirds  of  them,  moreover,  in  our  favor),  England 
could  mount  our  cavalry  twice  over,  and  every  one  there 
eats  meat.  But  then,  under  the  English  system  of  land- 
tenure,  it  is  almost  impossible  for  the  working  classes  to 
buy  land,  and  so  all  the  money  is  kept  in  constant  circulation. 
So  besides  the  evils  of  the  comminution  of  the  land,  and 
the  decay  of  the  trade  in  cattle,  horses,  and  sheep,  the 
chapter  Des  Successions  costs  us  a  further  loss  of  six  hundred 
million  francs  of  interest  on  the  capital  buried  by  the  peasants 
and  trades-people,  or  twelve  hundred  million  francs'  worth  of 
produce  (at  the  least) — that  is  to  say,  a  total  loss  of  three 
milliards  of  francs  withdrawn  from  circulation  every  half- 
century." 

"  The  moral  effect  is  worse  than  the  material  effect !  " 
cried  the  cur6.  "  We  are  turning  the  peasantry  into  pauper 
landowners,  and  half  educating  the  lower  middle  classes.  It 
will  not  be  long  before  the  canker  of  Each  for  himself !  Let 
each  mind  his  own  business  !  which  did  its  work  last  July  among 
the  upper  classes,  will  spread  to  the  middle  classes.  A  pro- 
letariat of  hardened  materialists,  knowing  no  God  but  envy, 
no  zeal  but  the  despair  of  hunger,  with  no  faith  nor  belief 
left,  will  come  to  the  front,  and  trample  the  heart  of  the 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONTEGNAC.  223 

country  under  foot.  The  foreigner,  waxing  great  under  a 
monarchical  government,  will  find  us  under  the  shadow  of 
royalty  without  the  reality  of  a  king,  without  law  under  the 
cover  of  legality,  owners  of  property  but  not  proprietors,  with 
the  right  of  election  but  without  a  government,  listless  holders 
of  free  and  independent  opinions,  equal  but  equally  unfor- 
tunate. Let  us  hope  that  between  now  and  then  God  will 
raise  up  in  France  the  man  for  the  time,  one  of  those  elect 
who  breathe  a  new  spirit  into  a  nation,  a  man  who,  whether 
he  is  a  Sylla  or  a  Marius,  whether  he  comes  from  the  heights 
or  rises  from  the  depths,  will  reconstruct  society." 

**The  first  thing  to  do  will  be  to  send  him  to  the  assizes 
or  to  the  police  court,"  said  Gerard.  "The  judgment  of 
Socrates  or  of  Christ  will  be  given  to  him,  here  in  1 831,  as  of 
old  in  Attica  and  at  Jerusalem.  To-day,  as  of  old,  jealous 
mediocrity  allows  the  thinker  to  starve.  If  the  great  political 
physicians  who  have  studied  the  diseases  of  France,  and  are 
opposed  to  the  spirit  of  the  age,  should  resist  to  the  starva- 
tion-point, we  ridicule  them,  and  treat  them  as  visionaries. 
Here  in  France  we  revolt  against  the  sovereign  thinker,  the 
great  man  of  the  future,  just  as  we  rise  in  revolt  against  the 
political  sovereign." 

"But  in  those  old  times  the  Sophists  had  a  very  limited 
audience,"  cried  the  justice  of  the  peace;  "while  to-day, 
through  the  medium  of  the  periodical  press,  they  can  lead 
a  whole  nation  astray  ;  and  the  press  which  pleads  for  com- 
mon-sense finds  no  echo  !  " 

The  mayor  looked  at  M.  Clousier  with  intense  astonish- 
ment. Mme.  Graslin,  delighted  to  find  a  simple  justice  of  the 
peace  interested  in  such  grave  problems,  turned  to  her  neigh- 
bor, M.  Roubaud,  with,  "  Do  you  know  M.  Clousier?  " 

"Not  till  to-day!  Madame,  you  are  working  miracles," 
he  added  in  her  ear.  "And  yet  look  at  his  forehead,  how 
finely  shaped  it  is  !  It  is  like  the  classical  or  traditional 
brow  that  sculptors  gave  to  Lycurgus  and  the  wise  men  of 


224  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Greece,  is  it  not  ?  Clearly  there  was  an  impolitic  side  to  the 
Revolution  of  July,"  he  added  aloud,  after  going  through  Gros- 
set^te's  reasonings.  He  had  been  a  medical  student,  and 
perhaps  would  have  lent  a  hand  at  a  barricade. 

"  'Twas  trebly  impolitic,"  said  Clousier.  "  We  have  con- 
cluded the  case  for  law  and  finance,  now  for  the  government. 
The  royal  power,  weakened  by  the  dogma  of  the  national 
sovereignty,  in  virtue  of  which  the  election  was  made  on  the 
9th  of  August,  1830,  will  strive  to  overcome  its  rival,  a  prin- 
ciple which  gives  the  people  the  right  of  changing  a  dynasty 
every  time  they  fail  to  apprehend  the  intentions  of  their 
king;  so  there  is  a  domestic  struggle  before  us  which  will 
check  progress  in  France  for  a  long  while  yet." 

"England  has  wisely  steered  clear  of  all  these  sunken 
rocks,"  said  Gerard.  "I  have  been  in  England.  I  admire 
the  hive  which  sends  swarms  over  the  globe  to  settle  and 
civilize.  In  England  political  debate  is  a  comedy  intended 
to  satisfy  the  people  and  to  hide  the  action  of  authority 
which  moves  untrammeled  in  its  lofty  sphere ;  election  there 
is  not,  as  in  France,  the  referring  of  a  question  to  a  stupid 
bourgeoisie.  If  the  land  were  divided  up,  England  would 
cease  to  exist  at  once.  The  great  landowners  and  the  lords 
control  the  machinery  of  government.  They  have  a  navy 
which  takes  possession  of  whole  quarters  of  the  globe  (and 
under  the  very  eyes  of  Europe)  to  fulfill  the  exigencies  of 
their  trade,  and  form  colonies  for  the  discontented  and 
unsatisfactory.  Instead  of  waging  war  on  men  of  ability, 
annihilating  and  underrating  them,  the  English  aristocracy 
continually  seeks  them  out,  rewards  and  assimilates  them. 
The  English  are  prompt  to  act  in  all  that  concerns  the  govern- 
ment, and  in  the  choice  of  men  and  material,  while  with  us 
action  of  any  kind  is  slow  ;  and  yet  they  are  slow,  and  we 
impatient.  Capital  with  them  is  adventurous,  and  always 
moving  ;  with  us  it  is  shy  and  suspicious.  Here  is  corrobora- 
tion of  M.  Grosset^te's  statements  about  the  loss  to  industry 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONTAGNAC.  225 

of  the  peasants'  capital ;  I  can  sketch  the  difference  in  a  few 
words.  English  capital,  which  is  constantly  circulating,  has 
created  ten  milliards  of  wealth  in  the  shape  of  expanded 
manufactures  and  joint-stock  companies  paying  dividends; 
while  here  in  France,  though  we  have  more  capital,  it  has  not 
yielded  one-tenth  part  of  the  profit." 

"It  is  all  the  more  extraordinary,"  said  Roubaud,  "since 
they  are  lymphatic,  and  we  are  generally  either  sanguine  or 
nervous." 

"  Here  is  a  great  problem  for  you  to  study,  monsieur," 
said  Clousier.  "  Given  a  national  temperament,  to  find  the 
institutions  best  adapted  to  counteract  it.  Truly,  Cromwell 
was  a  great  legislator.  He,  one  man,  made  England  what 
she  is  by  promulgating  the  Act  of  Navigation,  which  made 
the  English  the  enemy  of  all  other  nations,  and  infused  into 
them  a  fierce  pride,  that  has  served  them  as  a  lever.  But  in 
spite  of  their  garrison  at  Malta,  as  soon  as  France  and  Russia 
fully  understand  the  part  to  be  played  in  politics  by  the  Black 
Sea  and  the  Mediterranean,  the  discovery  of  a  new  route  to 
Asia  by  way  of  Egypt  or  the  Euphrates  valley  will  be  a  death- 
blow to  England,  just  as  the  discovery  of  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  was  the  ruin  of  Venice." 

"  And  nothing  of  God  in  all  this  !  "  cried  the  cure.  "  M. 
Clousier  and  M.  Roubaud  are  indifferent  in  matters  of  religion 

and  you,  monsieur?"  he  asked  questioningly,  turning  to 

Gerard. 

"A  Protestant,"  said  Grossetdte. 

"You  guessed  rightly!"  exclaimed  Veronique,  with  a 
glance  at  the  cure  as  she  offered  her  hand  to  Clousier  to 
return  to  her  apartments. 

All  prejudices  excited  by  M.  Gerard's  appearance  quickly 
vanished,  and  the  three  notables  of  Montegnac  congratulated 
themselves  on  such  an  acquisition. 

"Unluckily,"  said  M.  Bonnet,  "there  is  a  cause  for  an- 
tagonism between  Russia  and  the  Catholic  countries  on  the 
15 


226  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

shores  of  the  Mediterranean ;  a  schism  of  little  real  impor- 
tance divides  the  Greek  Church  from  the  Latin,  to  the  great 
misfortune  of  humanity." 

"  Each  preaches  for  his  saint,"  said  Mme.  Graslin,  smiling. 
"  M.  Grosset^te  thinks  of  lost  milliards ;  M.  Clousier  of  law 
in  confusion  ;  the  doctor  sees  in  legislation  a  question  of 
temperaments ;  M.  le  Cure  sees  in  religion  an  obstacle  in  the 
way  of  a  good  understanding  between  France  and  Russia." 

"  Please  add,  madame,"  said  Gerard,  "that  in  the  seques- 
tration of  capital  by  the  peasant  and  small  tradesman,  I  see 
the  delay  of  the  completion  of  railways  in  France " 

"  Then  what  would  you  have  ?  "  asked  she. 

"Oh  !  The  admirable  Councilors  of  State  who  devised 
laws  in  the  time  of  the  Emperor  and  the  Corps  legislatif,  when 
those  who  had  brains  as  well  as  those  who  had  property  had  a 
voice  in  the  election,  a  body  whose  sole  function  it  was  to 
oppose  unwise  laws  or  capricious  wars.  The  present  Chamber 
of  Deputies  is  like  to  end,  as  you  will  see,  by  becoming  the 
governing  body,  and  legalized  anarchy  it  will  be." 

"Great  heavens!"  cried  the  cure  in  an  excess  of  lofty 
patriotism,  "how  is  it  that  minds  so  enlightened" — he  in- 
dicated Clousier,  Roubaud,  and  Gerard — "  see  the  evil,  and 
point  out  the  remedy,  and  do  not  begin  by  applying  it  to 
themselves  ?  All  of  you  represent  the  classes  attacked  ;  all  of 
you  recognize  the  necessity  of  passive  obedience  on  the  part 
of  the  great  masses  in  the  state,  an  obedience  like  that  of  the 
soldier  in  time  of  war ;  all  of  you  desire  the  unity  of  authority, 
and  wish  that  it  shall  never  be  called  in  question.  But  that 
consolidation  to  which  England  has  attained  through  the  de- 
velopment of  pride  and  material  interests  (which  are  a  sort  of 
belief)  can  only  be  attained  here  by  sentiments  induced  by 
Catholicism,  and  you  are  not  Catholics !  I  the  priest  drop 
my  character,  and  reason  with  rationalists. 

"  How  can  you  expect  the  masses  to  become  religious  and 
to  obey  if  they  see  irreligion  and  relaxed  discipline  around 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  227 

them  ?  A  people  united  by  any  faith  will  easily  get  the  better 
of  men  without  belief.  The  law  of  the  interest  of  all,  which 
underlies  patriotism,  is  at  once  annulled  by  the  law  of  indi- 
vidual interest,  which  authorizes  and  implants  selfishness. 
Nothing  is  solid  and  durable  but  that  which  is  natural,  and 
the  natural  basis  of  politics  is  the  family.  The  family  should 
be  the  basis  of  all  institutions.  A  universal  effect  denotes  a 
coextensive  cause.  These  things  that  you  notice  proceed 
from  the  social  principle  itself,  which  has  no  force,  because  it 
is  based  on  independent  opinion,  and  the  right  of  private 
judgment  is  the  forerunner  of  individualism.  There  is  less 
wisdom  in  looking  for  the  blessing  of  security  from  the  intel- 
ligence and  capacity  of  the  majority  than  in  depending  upon 
the  intelligence  of  institutions  and  the  capacity  of  one  single 
man  for  the  blessing  of  security.  It  is  easier  to  find  wisdom 
in  one  man  than  in  a  whole  nation.  The  peoples  have  but  a 
blind  heart  to  guide  them ;  they  feel,  but  they  do  not  see. 
A  government  must  see,  and  must  not  be  swayed  by  senti- 
ments. There  is  therefore  an  evident  contradiction  between 
the  first  impulses  of  the  masses  and  the  action  of  authority 
which  must  direct  their  energy  and  give  it  unity.  To  find  a 
great  prince  is  a  great  chance  (to  use  your  language),  but  to 
trust  your  destinies  to  any  assembly  of  men,  even  if  they  are 
honest,  is  madness. 

"  France  is  mad  at  this  moment !  Alas  !  you  are  as  thor- 
oughly convinced  of  this  as  I.  If  all  men  who  really  be- 
lieve what  they  say,  as  you  do,  would  set  the  example  in 
their  own  circle ;  if  every  intelligent  thinker  would  set  his 
hand  to  raising  once  more  the  altars  of  the  great  spiritual 
republic,  of  the  one  Church  which  has  directed  humanity, 
we  might  see  once  more  in  France  the  miracles  wrought  there 
by  our  fathers." 

"  What  would  you  have,  M.  le  Cur6  ?  "  said  Gerard,  "  if  one 
must  speak  to  you  as  in  the  confessional — I  look  on  faith  as  a 
lie  which  you  consciously  tell  yourself,  on  hope  as  a  lie  about 


228  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

the  future,  and  on  this  charity  of  yours  as  a  child's  trick ; 
one  is  a  good  boy,  for  the  sake  of  the  jam." 

"And  yet,  monsieur,  when  hope  rocks  us  we  sleep  well," 
said  Mme.  Graslin. 

Roubaud,  who  was  about  to  speak,  supported  by  a  glance 
from  GrossetSte  and  the  cure,  stopped  short,  however,  at  the 
words. 

"Is  it  any  fault  of  ours,"  said  Clousier,  "if  Jesus  Christ 
had  not  time  to  formulate  a  system  of  government  in  ac- 
cordance with  His  teaching,  as  Moses  did  and  Confucius — 
the  two  greatest  legislators  whom  the  world  has  seen,  for 
the  Jews  and  the  Chinese  still  maintain  their  national  exist- 
ence, though  the  first  are  scattered  all  over  the  earth,  and  the 
second  an  isolated  people  ? ' ' 

"Ah!  you  are  giving  me  a  task  indeed,"  said  the  cur6 
candidly,  "but  I  shall  triumph,  I  shall  convert  all  of  you 

.     You  are  nearer  the  faith  than  you  think.     Truth  lurks 

beneath  the    lie;    come   forward    but   a   step,  and   you    re- 
turn !  " 

And  with  this  cry  from  the  cur6  the  conversation  took  a 
fresh  direction. 

The  next  morning  before  M.  GrossetSte  went,  he  promised 
to  take  an  active  share  in  Veronique's  schemes  so  soon  as  they 
should  be  judged  practicable.  Mme.  Graslin  and  Gerard  rode 
beside  his  traveling  carriage  as  far  as  the  point  where  the  cross- 
road joined  the  high-road  from  Bordeaux  to  Lyons.  Gerard 
was  so  eager  to  see  the  place,  and  Veronique  so  anxious  to 
show  it  to  him,  that  this  ride  had  been  planned  overnight. 
After  they  took  leave  of  the  kind  old  man,  they  galloped  down 
into  the  great  plain  and  skirted  the  hillsides  that  lay  between 
the  chateau  and  the  Living  Rock.  The  surveyor  recognized 
the  rock  embankment  which  Farrabesche  had  pointed  out ;  it 
stood  up  like  the  lowest  course  of  masonry  under  the  founda- 
tions of  the  hills,  in  s'lch  a  manner  that  when  the  bed  of  this 
indestructible  canal  of  nature's  making  should  be  cleared  out, 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONTAGNAC.  229 

and  the  water-courses  regulated  so  as  not  to  choke  it,  irrigation 
would  actually  be  facilitated  by  that  long  channel  which  lay 
about  ten  feet  above  the  surface  of  the  plain.  The  first  thing 
to  be  done  was  to  estimate  the  volume  of  water  in  the  Gabon, 
and  to  make  certain  that  the  sides  of  the  valley  could  hold  it ; 
no  decision  could  be  made  till  this  was  known. 

Veronique  gave  a  horse  to  Farrabesche,  who  was  to  accom- 
pany Gerard  and  acquaint  him  with  the  least  details  which  he 
himself  had  observed.  After  some  days  of  consideration 
Gerard  thought  the  base  of  either  parallel  chains  of  hill  solid 
enough  (albeit  of  different  material)  to  hold  the  water. 

In  the  January  of  the  following  year,  a  wet  season,  Gdrard 
calculated  the  probable  amount  of  water  discharged  by  the 
Gabon,  and  found  that,  when  the  three  water-courses  had  been 
diverted  into  the  torrent,  the  total  amount  would  be  sufficient 
to  water  an  area  three  times  as  great  as  the  plain  of  Mont6gnac. 
The  dams  across  the  Gabon,  the  masonry  and  engineering 
works  needed  to  bring  the  water-supply  of  the  three  little 
valleys  into  the  plain,  should  not  cost  more  than  sixty  thou- 
sand francs ;  for  the  surveyor  discovered  a  quantity  of  chalky 
deposit  on  the  common,  so  that  lime  would  be  cheap,  and  the 
forest  being  so  near  at  hand,  stone  and  timber  would  cost 
nothing  even  for  transport.  All  the  preparations  could  be 
made  before  the  Gabon  ran  dry,  so  that  when  the  important 
work  should  be  begun  it  should  quickly  be  finished.  But  the 
plain  was  another  matter.  Gerard  considered  that  there  the 
first  preparation  would  cost  at  least  two  hundred  thousand 
francs,  sowing  and  planting  apart. 

The  plain  was  to  be  divided  into  four  squares  of  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  acres  each.  There  was  no  question  of  breaking 
up  the  waste  ;  the  first  thing  to  do  was  to  remove  the  largest 
flints.  Navvies  would  be  employed  to  dig  a  great  number  of 
trenches  and  to  line  the  channels  with  stone  to  keep  the  water 
in,  for  the  water  must  be  made  to  flow  or  to  stand  as  required. 
All   this  work  called  for   active,   devoted,   and  painstaking 


236  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

workers.  Chance  so  ordered  it  that  the  plain  was  a  straight- 
forward piece  of  work,  a  level  stretch,  and  the  water  with  a 
ten-foot  fall  could  be  distributed  at  will.  There  was  nothing 
to  prevent  the  finest  results  in  farming  the  land  ;  here  there 
might  be  just  such  a  splendid  green  carpet  as  in  North  Italy, 
a  source  of  wealth  and  of  pride  to  Lombardy.  Gerard  sent 
to  his  late  district  for  an  old  and  experienced  foreman,  Fres- 
quia  by  name. 

Mme.  Graslin,  therefore,  wrote  to  ask  Grosset^te  to  negotiate 
for  her  a  loan  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  on  the 
security  of  her  government  stock ;  the  interest  of  six  years, 
Gerard  calculated,  should  pay  off  the  debt,  capital  and  in- 
terest. The  loan  was  concluded  in  the  course  of  the  month 
of  March ;  and  by  that  time  Gerard,  with  Fresquin's  assist- 
ance, had  finished  all  the  preliminary  operations,  leveling,  bor- 
ing, observations,  and  estimates.  The  news  of  the  great  scheme 
had  spread  through  the  country  and  roused  the  poor  people ; 
and  the  indefatigable  Farrabesche,  Colorat,  Clousier,  Roubaud, 
and  the  Mayor  of  Montegnac,  all  those,  in  fact,  who  were 
interested  in  the  enterprise  for  its  own  sake  or  for  Mme. 
Graslin's,  chose  the  workers  or  gave  the  names  of  the  poor 
who  deserved  to  be  employed. 

Gerard  bought  partly  for  M.  Grossetgte,  partly  on  his  own 
account,  some  thousand  acres  of  land  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road  through  Montegnac.  Fresquin,  his  foreman,  also  took 
five  hundred  acres,  and  sent  for  his  wife  and  children. 

In  the  early  days  of  April,  1833,  M.  GrossetSte  came  to 
Mont6gnac  to  see  the  land  purchased  for  him  by  Gerard ;  but 
the  principal  motive  of  his  journey  was  the  arrival  of  Catherine 
Curieux.  She  had  come  by  the  diligence  from  Paris  to 
Limoges,  and  Mme.  Graslin  was  expecting  her.  Grosset^te 
found  Mme.  Graslin  about  to  start  for  the  church.  M.  Bonnet 
was  to  say  a  mass  to  ask  the  blessing  of  heaven  on  the  work 
about  to  begin.  All  the  men,  women,  and  children  were 
present. 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MOI^TAgNAC.  231 

M.  Grosset^te  brought  forward  a  woman  of  thirty  or  there- 
abouts, who  looked  weak  and  out  of  health.  "  Here  is  your 
protege,"  he  said,  addressing  Veronique. 

"  Are  you  Catherine  Curieux?"  Mme.  Graslin  asked. 

"  Yes,  madame." 

For  a  moment  Veronique  looked  at  her;  Catherine  was 
rather  tall,  shapely,  and  pale  ;  the  exceeding  sweetness  of  her 
features  was  not  belied  by  the  beautiful  soft  gray  eyes.  In  the 
shape  of  her  face  and  the  outlines  of  her  forehead  there  was  a 
nobleness,  a  sort  of  grave  and  simple  majesty,  sometimes  seen 
in  very  young  girls'  faces  in  the  country,  a  kind  of  flower  of 
beauty,  which  field-work,  and  the  constant  wear  of  household 
cares,  and  sunburn,  and  neglect  of  appearance,  wither  with 
alarming  rapidity.  From  her  attitude  as  she  stood  it  was 
easy  to  discern  that  she  would  move  with  the  ease  of  a 
daughter  of  the  fields  and  something  of  an  added  grace,  un- 
consciously learned  in  Paris,  If  Catherine  had  never  left  the 
Corr^ze,  she  would  no  doubt  have  been  by  this  time  a  wrinkled 
and  withered  woman,  the  bright  tints  in  her  face  would  have 
grown  hard  ;  but  Paris,  which  had  toned  down  the  high  color, 
had  preserved  her  beauty;  and  ill-health,  weariness,  and  sor- 
row had  given  to  her  the  mysterious  gifts  of  melancholy  and 
of  that  inner  life  of  thought  denied  to  poor  toilers  in  the  field 
who  lead  an  almost  animal  existence.  Her  dress  likewise 
marked  a  distinction  between  her  and  the  peasants ;  for  it 
abundantly  displayed  the  Parisian  taste  which  even  the  least 
coquettish  women  are  so  quick  to  acquire.  Catherine  Curieux, 
not  knowing  what  might  await  her,  and  unable  to  judge 
the  lady  in  whose  presence  she  stood,  seemed  somewhat 
embarrassed. 

"Do  you  still  love  Farrabesche ? "  asked  Mme.  Graslin, 
when  Grosset^te  left  the  two  women  together  for  a  moment. 
"Yes,  madame,"  she  answered,  flushing  red. 
"But  if  you  sent  him  a  thousand  francs  while  he  was  in 
prison,  why  did  you  not  come  to  him  when  he  came  out  ? 


232  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Do  you  feel  any  repugnance  for  him  ?  Speak  to  me  as  you 
would  to  your  own  mother.  Were  you  afraid  that  he  had 
gone  utterly  to  the  bad  ?  that  he  cared  for  you  no  longer  ?  " 

"No,  madame ;  but  I  can  neither  read  nor  write.  I  was 
living  with  a  very  exacting  old  lady ;  she  fell  ill  \  we  sat  up 
with  her  of  a  night,  and  I  had  to  nurse  her.  I  knew  the  time 
was  coming  near  when  Jacques  would  be  out  of  prison,  but  I 
could  not  leave  Paris  until  the  lady  died.  She  left  me  nothing, 
after  all  my  devotion  to  her  and  her  interests.  I  had  made 
myself  ill  with  sitting  up  with  her  and  the  hard  work  of  nurs- 
ing, and  I  wanted  to  get  well  again  before  I  came  back.  I 
spent  all  my  savings,  and  then  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  into 
the  Hopital  Saint-Louis,  and  have  just  been  discharged  as 
cured." 

Mme.  Graslin  was  touched  by  an  explanation  so  simple. 

"Well,  but,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "tell  me  why  you  left 
your  people  so  suddenly  ;  what  made  you  leave  your  child  ? 
why  did  you  not  send  them  news  of  you,  or  get  some  one  to 
write " 

For  all  answer,  Catherine  wept. 

"Madame,"  she  said  at  last,  reassured  by  the  pressure  of 
Veronique's  hand,  "  I  daresay  I  was  wrong,  but  it  was  more 
than  I  could  do  to  stop  in  the  place.  It  was  not  that  I  felt 
I  had  done  wrong ;  it  was  the  rest  of  them  ;  I  was  afraid 
of  their  gossip  and  talk.  So  long  as  Jacques  was  here  in 
danger,  he  could  not  do  without  me  ;  but  when  he  was  gone, 
I  felt  as  if  I  could  not  stop.  There  was  I,  a  girl  with  a  child 
and  no  husband  !  The  lowest  creature  would  have  been  better 
than  I.  If  I  had  heard  them  say  the  least  word  about  Ben- 
jamin or  his  father,  I  do  not  know  what  I  should  have  done. 
I  should  have  killed  myself  perhaps  or  gone  out  of  my  mind. 
My  own  father  or  mother  might  have  said  something  hasty  in 
a  moment  of  anger.  Meek  as  I  am,  I  am  too  irritable  to 
bear  hasty  words  or  insult.  I  have  been  well  punished ;  I 
could  not  see  my  child,  and  never  a  day  passed  but  I  thought 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONTAGNAC.  233 

of  him  !  I  wanted  to  be  forgotten,  and  forgotten  I  am. 
Nobody  has  given  me  a  thought.  They  thought  I  was  dead, 
and  yet  many  and  many  a  time  I  felt  I  could  like  to  leave 
everything  to  have  one  day  here  and  see  my  little  boy " 

"  Your  little  boy — see,  Catherine,  here  he  is  !  "  replied 
Madame  Graslin. 

Catherine  looked  up  and  saw  Benjamin,  and  something  like 
a  feverish  shiver  ran  through  her. 

"Benjamin,"  said  Mme.  Graslin,  "come  and  kiss  your 
mother." 

"  My  mother  ? ' '  cried  Benjamin  in  amazement.  He  flung 
his  arms  round  Catherine's  neck,  and  she  clasped  him  to  her 
with  wild  energy.  But  the  boy  escaped,  and  ran  away  crying, 
"I  will  find  htmf' 

Mme.  Graslin,  seeing  that  Catherine's  strength  was  failing, 
made  her  sit  down  ;  and  as  she  did  so  her  eyes  met  M. 
Bonnet's  look,  her  color  rose,  for  in  that  keen  glance  her 
confessor  read  her  heart.     She  spoke  tremulously. 

"I  hope,  M.  le  Cure,"  she  said,  "that  you  will  marry 
Catherine  and  Farrabesche  at  once.  Do  you  not  remember 
M.  Bonnet,  my  child  ?  He  will  tell  you  that  Farrabesche  has 
behaved  himself  like  an  honest  man  since  he  came  back. 
Every  one  in  the  countryside  respects  him  ;  if  there  is  a  place 
in  the  world  where  you  may  live  happily  with  the  good  opinion 
of  every  one  about  you,  it  is  here  in  Montegnac.  With  God's 
will,  you  will  make  your  fortune  here,  for  you  shall  be  my 
tenants.     Farrabesche  has  all  his  citizen's  rights  again." 

"This  is  all  true,  my  daughter,"  said  the  cure. 

As  he  spoke,  Farrabesche  came  in,  led  by  his  eager  son. 
Face  to  face  with  Catherine  in  Mme.  Graslin's  presence,  his 
face  grew  white,  and  he  was  mute.  He  saw  how  active  the 
kindness  of  the  one  had  been  for  him,  and  guessed  all  that 
the  other  had  suffered  in  her  enforced  absence.  Veronique 
turned  to  go  with  M.  Bonnet,  and  the  cure  for  his  part  wished 
to  take  Veronique  aside.     As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing. 


S34  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Veronique's  confessor  looked  full  at  her  and  saw  her  color 
rise ;  she  lowered  her  eyes  like  a  guilty  creature. 

"You  are  degrading  charity,"  he  said  severely. 

"  And  how?  "  she  asked,  raising  her  head. 

"Charity,"  said  M.  Bonnet,  "is  a  passion  as  far  greater 
than  love,  as  humanity,  raadame,  is  greater  than  one  human 
creature.  All  this  is  not  the  spontaneous  work  of  disinter- 
ested virtue.  You  are  falling  from  the  grandeur  of  the  service 
of  man  to  the  service  of  a  single  creature.  In  your  kindness 
to  Catherine  and  Farrabesche  there  is  an  alloy  of  memories 
and  after-thoughts  which  spoils  it  in  the  sight  of  God.  Pluck 
out  the  rest  of  the  dart  of  the  spirit  of  evil  from  your  heart. 
Do  not  spoil  the  value  of  your  good  deeds  in  this  way.  Will 
you  ever  attain  at  last  to  that  holy  ignorance  of  the  good 
that  you  do,  which  is  the  supreme  grace  of  man's  actions?  " 

Mme.  Graslin  turned  away  to  dry  her  eyes.  Her  tears  told 
the  cur6  that  his  words  had  reached  and  probed  some  unhealed 
wound  in  her  heart.  Farrabesche,  Catherine,  and  Benjamin 
came  to  thank  their  benefactress,  but  she  made  a  sign  to  them 
to  go  away  and  leave  her  with  M.  Bonnet. 

"You  see  how  I  have  hurt  them,"  she  said,  bidding  him 
see  their  disappointed  faces.  And  the  tender-hearted  cur6 
beckoned  to  them  to  come  back. 

"You  must  be  completely  happy,"  she  said.  "Here  is  the 
patent  which  gives  you  back  all  your  rights  as  a  citizen,  and 
exempts  you  from  the  old  humiliating  formalities,"  she  added, 
holding  out  to  Farrabesche  a  paper  which  she  had  kept. 
Farrabesche  kissed  Veronique's  hand.  There  was  an  expres- 
sion of  submissive  affection  and  quiet  devotion  in  his  eyes, 
the  devotion  which  nothing  could  change,  the  fidelity  of  a 
dog  for  his  master. 

"  If  Jacques  has  suffered  much,  madame,  I  hope  that  it  will 
be  possible  for  me  to  make  up  to  him  in  happiness  for  the 
trouble  he  has  been  through,"  said  Catherine;  "for  whatever 
he  may  have  done,  he  is  not  bad." 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONTAGNAC.  235 

Mme.  Graslin  turned  away  her  head.  The  sight  of  their 
happiness  seemed  to  crush  her.  M.  Bonnet  left  her  to  go  to 
the  church,  and  she  dragged  herself  thither  on  M.  Grosset^te's 
arm. 

After  breakfast,  every  one  went  to  see  the  work  begun.  All 
the  old  people  of  Montegnac  were  likewise  present.  Veron- 
ique  stood  between  M.  Grossetete  and  M.  Bonnet  on  the  top 
of  the  steep  slope  which  the  new  road  ascended,  whence  they 
could  see  the  alignment  of  the  four  new  roads,  which  served 
as  a  deposit  for  the  stones  taken  off  the  land.  Five  navvies 
were  clearing  a  space  of  eighteen  feet  (the  width  of  each  road), 
and  throwing  up  a  sort  of  embankment  of  good  soil  as  they 
worked.  Four  men  on  either  side  were  engaged  in  making  a 
ditch,  and  these  also  made  a  bank  of  fertile  earth  along  the 
edge  of  the  field.  Behind  them  came  two  men,  who  dug 
holes  at  intervals,  and  planted  trees.  In  each  division,  thirty 
laborers  (chosen  from  among  the  poor),  twenty  women,  and 
forty  girls  and  children,  eighty-six  workers  in  all,  were  busy 
piling  up  the  stones  which  the  workmen  riddled  out  along  the 
bank  so  as  to  measure  the  quantity  produced  by  each  group. 
In  this  way  all  went  abreast,  and  with  such  picked  and  enthu- 
siastic workers  rapid  progress  was  being  made.  Grossetete 
promised  to  send  some  trees,  and  to  ask  for  more,  among 
Mme.  Graslin's  friends.  It  was  evident  that  there  would  not 
be  enough  in  the  nursery  plantations  at  the  chateau  to  supply 
such  a  demand. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  day,  which  was  to  finish  with  a 
great  dinner  at  the  chateau,  Farrabesche  begged  to  speak  with 
Mme.  Graslin  for  a  moment.     Catherine  came  with  him. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "you  were  so  kind  as  to  promise  me 
the  home  farm.  You  meant  to  help  me  to  a  fortune  when 
you  granted  me  such  a  favor,  but  I  have  come  round  to 
Catherine's  ideas  about  our  future.  If  I  did  well  there,  there 
would  be  jealousy;  a  word  is  soon  said;  I  might  find  things 
unpleasant,  I  am  afraid,  and,  besides,  Catherine  would  never 


236  THE   COUyTRY  PARSON. 

feel  comfortable;  it  would  be  better  for  us  to  keep  to  ourselves, 
in  fact.  So  I  have  come  just  to  ask  you  if  you  will  give  us  the 
land  about  the  mouth  of  the  Gabou,  near  the  common,  to 
farm  instead,  and  a  little  bit  of  the  wood  yonder  under  the 
Living  Rock.  You  will  have  a  lot  of  workmen  thereabouts 
in  July,  and  it  would  be  easy  then  to  build  a  farmhouse  on  a 
knoll  in  a  good  situation.  We  should  be  very  happy.  I 
would  send  for  Guepin,  poor  fellow,  when  he  comes  out  of 
prison ;  he  would  work  like  a  horse,  and  it  is  likely  I  might 
find  a  wife  for  him.  My  man  is  no  do-nothing.  No  one  will 
come  up  there  to  stare  at  us;  we  will  colonize  that  bit  of  land, 
and  it  will  be  my  great  ambition  to  make  a  famous  farm  for 
you  there.  Besides,  I  have  come  to  suggest  a  tenant  for 
your  great  farm — a  cousin  of  Catherine's,  who  has  a  little 
money  of  his  own ;  he  will  be  better  able  than  I  to  look  after 
such  a  big  concern  as  that.  In  five  years'  time,  please  God, 
you  will  have  five  or  six  thousand  head  of  cattle  or  horses 
down  there  in  the  plain  that  they  are  breaking  up,  and  it  will 
really  take  a  good  head  to  look  after  it  all." 

Mme.  Graslin  recognized  the  good  sense  of  Farrabesche's 
request,  and  granted  it. 

As  soon  as  a  beginning  was  made  in  the  plain,  Mme. 
Graslin  fell  into  the  even  ways  of  a  country  life.  She  went 
to  mass  in  the  morning,  watched  over  the  education  of  the 
son  whom  she  idolized,  and  went  to  see  her  workmen.  After 
dinner  she  was  at  home  to  her  friends  in  the  little  drawing- 
room  on  the  first  floor  of  the  centre  tower.  She  taught  Rou- 
baud,  Clousier,  and  the  cur6  whist — Gerard  knew  the  game 
already — and  when  the  party  broke  up  towards  nine  o'clock, 
every  one  went  home.  The  only  events  in  the  pleasant  life 
were  the  successes  of  the  different  parts  of  the  great  enterprise. 

June  came,  the  bed  of  the  Gabou  was  dry,  Gerard  had 
taken  up  his  quarters  in  the  old  keeper's  cottage ;  for  Farra- 
besche's farmhouse  was  finished  by  this  time,  and  fifty  masons, 
obtained  from  Paris,  were  building  a  wall  across  the  valley 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  M0NT£GNAC.  237 

from  side  to  side.  The  masonry  was  twenty  feet  thick  at  the 
base,  gradually  sloping  away  to  half  that  thickness  at  the  top, 
and  the  whole  length  of  it  was  embedded  in  twelve  feet  of 
solid  concrete.  On  the  side  of  the  valley  Gerard  added  a 
course  of  concrete  with  a  sloping  surface  twelve  feet  thick  at 
the  base,  and  a  similar  support  on  the  side  nearest  the  com- 
mons, covered  with  leaf-mold  several  feet  deep,  made  a  sub- 
stantial barrier  which  the  flood-water  could  not  break  through. 
In  case  of  a  very  wet  season,  Gerard  contrived  a  channel  at  a 
suitable  height  for  the  overflow.  Everywhere  the  masonry 
was  carried  down  on  the  solid  rock  (granite,  or  tufa),  that  the 
water  might  not  escape  at  the  sides.  By  the  middle  of  August 
the  dam  was  finished.  Meanwhile,  Gerard  also  prepared 
three  channels  in  the  three  principal  valleys,  and  all  of  the 
undertakings  cost  less  than  the  estimate.  In  this  way  the 
farm  by  the  chateau  could  be  put  in  working  order. 

The  irrigation  channels  in  the  plain  under  Fresquin's  super- 
intendence corresponded  with  the  natural  canal  at  the  base  of 
the  hills  ;  all  the  water-courses  departed  thence.  The  great 
abundance  of  flints  enabled  him  to  pave  all  the  channels,  and 
sluices  were  constructed  so  that  the  water  might  be  kept  at 
the  required  height  in  them. 

Every  Sunday  after  mass  Veronique  went  down  through  the 
park  with  Gerard  and  the  cure,  the  doctor,  and  the  mayor,  to 
see  how  the  system  of  water-supply  was  working.  The  winter 
of  1 833-1 834  was  very  wet.  The  water  from  the  three 
streams  had  been  turned  into  the  torrent,  and  the  flood  had 
made  the  valley  of  the  Gabou  into  three  lakes,  arranged  of  set 
design  one  above  the  other,  so  as  to  form  a  reserve  for  times 
of  great  drought.  In  places  where  the  valley  widened  out, 
Gerard  had  taken  advantage  of  one  or  two  knolls  to  make  an 
island  here  and  there,  and  to  plant  them  with  different  trees. 
This  vast  engineering  operation  had  completely  altered  the 
appearance  of  the  landscape,  but  it  would  still  be  five  or  six 
years  before  it  would  take  its  true  character. 


238  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"The  land  was  quite  naked,"  Farrabesche  used  to  say, 
"and  now  madame  has  clothed  it."  After  all  these  great 
changes,  every  one  spoke  of  Veronique  as  **  madame  "  in  the 
countryside.  When  the  rains  ceased  in  June,  1834,  trial  was 
made  of  the  irrigation  system  in  the  part  of  the  plain  where 
seed  had  been  sown ;  and  the  green  growth  thus  watered  was 
of  the  same  fine  quality  as  in  an  Italian  mardia,  or  a  Swiss 
meadow.  The  method  in  use  on  farms  in  Lombardy  had  been 
employed  ;  the  whole  surface  was  kept  evenly  moist,  and  the 
plain  was  as  even  as  a  carpet.  The  nitre  in  the  snow,  dis- 
solved in  the  water,  doubtless  contributed  not  a  little  to  the 
fineness  of  the  grass.  Gerard  hoped  that  the  produce  would 
be  something  like  that  of  Switzerland,  where,  as  is  well 
known,  this  substance  is  an  inexhaustible  source  of  riches. 
The  trees  planted  along  the  roadsides,  drawing  water  sufficient 
from  the  ditches,  made  rapid  progress.  So  it  came  to  pass 
that  in  1838,  five  years  after  Mme.  Graslin  came  to  Montegnac, 
the  waste  land,  condemned  as  sterile  by  twenty  genera- 
tions, was  a  green  and  fertile  plain,  the  whole  of  it  under 
cultivation. 

Gerard  had  built  houses  for  five  farms,  besides  the  large 
one  at  the  chateau  ;  Gerard's  farm,  like  Grossetete's  and 
Fresquin's,  received  the  overflow  from  Mme.  Graslin's  estate  ; 
they  were  conducted  on  the  same  methods,  and  laid  out  on 
the  same  lines.  Gerard  built  a  charming  lodge  on  his  own 
property. 

When  all  was  finished,  the  township  of  Montegnac  acted 
on  the  suggestion  of  its  mayor,  who  was  delighted  to  resign 
his  office  to  Gerard,  and  the  surveyor  became  mayor  in  his 
stead. 

In  1840  the  departure  of  the  first  herd  of  fat  cattle  sent 
from  Montegnac  to  the  Paris  markets  was  an  occasion  for  a 
rural  fgte.  Cattle  and  horses  were  raised  on  the  farms  in  the 
plain;  for  when  the  ground  was  cleared,  seven  inches  of 
mold  were  usually  found,  which  were  manured  by  pasturing 


MADAME   GRASLIN  AT  MONT&GNAC.  239 

cattle  on  them,  and  continually  enriched  by  the  leaves  that 
fell  every  autumn  from  trees,  and,  first  and  foremost,  by  the 
melted  snow-water  from  the  reservoirs  in  the  Gabou. 

It  was  in  this  year  that  Mme.  Graslin  decided  that  a  tutor 
must  be  found  for  her  son,  now  eleven  years  old.  She  was 
unwilling  to  part  with  him,  and  yet  desired  to  make  a  well- 
educated  man  of  her  boy.  M.  Bonnet  wrote  to  the  seminary. 
Mme.  Graslin,  on  her  side,  let  fall  a  few  words  concerning 
her  wishes  and  her  difficulty  to  Monseigneur  Dutheil,  recently 
appointed  to  an  archbisopric.  It  was  a  great  and  serious 
matter  to  make  choice  of  a  man  who  must  spend  at  least  nine 
months  out  of  twelve  at  the  chateau.  Gerard  had  offered 
already  to  ground  his  friend  Francis  in  mathematics,  but  it 
was  impossible  to  do  without  a  tutor ;  and  this  choice  that 
she  must  make  was  the  more  formidable  to  Mme.  Graslin 
because  she  knew  that  her  health  was  giving  way.  As  the 
value  of  the  land  in  her  beloved  Mont^gnac  increased,  she 
redoubled  the  secret  austerities  of  her  life. 

Monseigneur  Dutheil,  with  whom  Mme.  Graslin  still  cor- 
responded, found  her  the  man  for  whom  she  wished.  He  sent 
a  schoolmaster  named  Ruffin  from  his  own  diocese.  Ruffin 
was  a  young  man  of  five-and-twenty  with  a  genius  for  private 
teaching ;  he  was  widely  read  ;  in  spite  of  an  excessive  sensi- 
bility, could,  when  necessary,  show  himself  sufficiently  severe 
for  the  education  of  a  child,  nor  was  his  piety  in  any  way 
prejudicial  to  his  knowledge;  finally,  he  was  patient  and 
pleasant-looking. 

**  This  is  a  real  gift  which  I  am  sending  you,  my  dear 
daughter,"  so  the  archbishop  wrote;  "the  young  man  is 
worthy  to  be  the  tutor  of  a  prince,  so  I  count  upon  you  to 
secure  his  future,  for  he  will  be  your  son's  spiritual  father." 

M.  Ruffin  was  so  much  liked  by  Mme.  Graslin's  little  circle 
of  faithful  friends  that  his  coming   made  no  change  in  the 


240  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

various  intimacies  of  those  who  grouped  about  their  idol, 
seized  with  a  sort  of  jealousy  on  the  hours  and  moments 
spent  with  her. 

The  year  1843  saw  the  prosperity  of  Montegnac  increasing 
beyond  all  hopes.  The  farm  on  the  Gabou  rivaled  the  farms 
on  the  plain,  and  the  chateau  led  the  way  in  all  improvements. 
The  five  other  farms,  which  by  the  terms  of  the  lease  paid  an 
increasing  rent,  and  would  each  bring  in  the  sum  of  thirty 
thousand  francs  in  twelve  years'  time,  then  brought  in  sixty 
thousand  francs  a  year  all  told.  The  farmers  were  just  begin- 
ning to  reap  the  benefits  of  their  self-denial  and  Mme.  Graslin's 
sacrifices,  and  could  aiford  to  manure  the  meadows  in  the 
plain  where  the  finest  crops  grew  without  fear  of  dry  seasons. 
The  Gabou  farm  paid  its  first  rent  of  four  thousand  francs 
joyously. 

It  was  in  this  year  that  a  man  in  Montegnac  started  a  dili- 
gence between  the  chief  town  in  the  arrondissement  and  Lim- 
oges ;  a  coach  ran  either  way  daily.  M.  Clousier's  nephew 
sold  his  clerkship  and  obtained  permission  to  practice  as  a 
notary,  and  Fresquin  was  appointed  to  be  tax-collector  in  the 
canton.  Then  the  new  notary  built  himself  a  pretty  house  in 
upper  Montegnac,  planted  mulberry  trees  on  his  land,  and 
became  Gerard's  deputy.  And  G6rard  himself,  grown  bold 
with  success,  thought  of  a  plan  which  was  to  bring  Mme. 
Graslin  a  colossal  fortune  ;  for  this  year  she  paid  off  her  loan, 
and  began  to  receive  interest  from  her  investment  in  the  funds. 
This  was  Gerard's  scheme  :  He  would  turn  the  little  river 
into  a  canal  by  diverting  the  abundant  water  of  the  Gabou 
into  it.  This  canal  should  effect  a  junction  with  the  Vienne, 
and  in  this  way  it  would  be  possible  to  exploit  twenty  thou- 
sand acres  of  the  vast  forest  of  Montegnac.  The  woods  were 
admirably  superintended  by  Colorat,  but  hitherto  had  brought 
in  nothing  on  account  of  the  difficulty  of  transport.  With 
this  arrangement  it  would  be  possible  to  fell  a  thousand  acres 
every  year  (thus  dividing  the  forest  into  twenty  strips  for  sue- 


MADAME    GRASLIN  AT  MONT^GNAC.  841 

cessive  cuttings),  and  the  valuable  timber  for  building  pur- 
poses could  be  sent  by  water  to  Limoges.  This  had  been 
Graslin's  plan  ;  he  had  scarcely  listened  to  the  cure's  projects 
for  the  plain,  he  was  far  more  interested  in  the  scheme  for 
making  a  canal  of  the  little  river. 

16 


V. 

VfiRONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE  TOMB. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  following  year,  in  spite  of  Mme. 
Graslin's  bearing,  her  friends  saw  warning  signs  that  death 
was  near.  To  all  Roubaud's  observations,  as  to  the  utmost 
ingenuity  of  the  most  keen-sighted  questioners,  Veronique 
gave  but  one  answer,  "  She  felt  wonderfully  well."  Yet  that 
spring,  when  she  revisited  forest  and  farms  and  her  rich 
meadows,  it  was  with  a  childlike  joy  that  plainly  spoke  of 
sad  forebodings. 

Gerard  had  been  obliged  to  make  a  low  wall  of  concrete 
from  the  dam  across  the  Gabou  to  the  park  at  Montegnac 
along  the  base  of  the  lower  slope  of  the  hill  of  the  Correze ; 
this  had  suggested  an  idea  to  him.  He  would  enclose  the 
whole  forest  of  Montegnac,  and  throw  the  park  into  it.  Mme. 
Graslin  put  by  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year  for  this  purpose. 
It  would  take  seven  years  to  complete  the  wall ;  but  when  it 
was  finished,  the  splendid  forest  would  be  exempted  from  the 
dues  claimed  by  the  government  over  unenclosed  woods  and 
lands,  and  the  three  ponds  in  the  Gabou  valley  would  lie 
within  the  circuit  of  the  park.  Each  of  the  ponds,  proudly 
dubbed  "a.  lake,"  had  its  island.  This  year,  too,  G6rard, 
in  concert  with  Grossetgte,  prepared  a  surprise  for  Mme. 
Graslin's  birthday;  he  had  built  on  the  second  and  largest 
island  a  little  Chartreuse — a  summer-house,  satisfactorily  rustic 
without  and  perfectly  elegant  within.  The  old  banker  was 
in  the  plot,  so  were  Farrabesche,  Fresquin,  and  Clousier's 
nephew,  and  most  of  the  well-to-do  folk  in  Montegnac.  Gros- 
setfite  sent  the  pretty  furniture.  The  bell  tower,  copied  from 
the  tower  of  Vevay,  produced  a  charming  effect  in  the  land- 
scape. Six  boats  (two  for  each  lake)  had  been  secretly  built, 
(242) 


VERONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  243 

rigged,  and  painted  during  the  winter  by  Farrabesche  and 
Guepin,  with  some  help  from  the  village  carpenter  at  Mon- 
tegnac. 

So  one  morning  in  the  middle  of  May,  after  Mme.  Graslin's 
friends  had  breakfasted  with  her,  they  led  her  out  into  the 
park,  which  Gerard  had  managed  for  the  last  five  years  as 
architect  and  naturalist.  It  had  been  admirably  laid  out, 
sloping  down  towards  the  pleasant  meadows  in  the  Gabon 
valley,  where  below,  on  the  first  lake,  two  boats  were  in  readi- 
ness for  them.  The  meadowland,  watered  by  several  clear 
streams,  had  been  taken  in  at  the  base  of  the  great  amphi- 
theatre at  the  head  of  the  Gabou  valley.  The  woods  round 
about  them  had  been  carefully  thinned  and  disposed  with  a 
view  to  the  effect ;  here  the  shapeliest  masses  of  trees,  there 
a  charming  inlet  of  meadow ;  there  was  an  air  of  loneliness 
about  the  forest-surrounded  place  which  soothed  the  soul. 

On  a  bit  of  rising  ground  by  the  lake  Gerard  had  carefully 
reproduced  the  chalet  which  all  travelers  see  and  admire  on 
the  road  to  Brieg,  through  the  Rhone  valley.  This  was  to  be 
the  chateau,  dairy,  and  cow-shed.  From  the  balcony  there 
was  a  view  over  this  landscape  created  by  the  engineer's  art, 
a  view  comparable,  since  the  lakes  had  been  made,  to  the 
loveliest  Swiss  scenery. 

It  was  a  glorious  day.  Not  a  cloud  in  the  blue  sky,  and  on 
the  earth  beneath,  the  myriad  gracious  chance  effects  that  the 
fair  May  month  can  give.  Light  wreaths  of  mist,  risen  from 
the  lake,  still  hung  like  a  thin  smoke  about  the  trees  by  the 
water's  edge — willows  and  weeping  willows,  ash  and  alder 
and  abeles,  Lombard  and  Canadian  poplars,  white  and  pink 
hawthorn,  birch  and  acacia,  had  been  grouped  about  the  lake, 
as  the  nature  of  the  ground  and  the  trees  themselves  (all  finely 
grown  specimens  now  ten  years  old)  suggested.  The  high 
green  wall  of  forest  trees  was  reflected  in  the  sheet  of  water, 
clear  as  a  mirror,  and  serene  as  the  sky  \  their  topmost  crests, 
clearly  outlined  in  that  limpid  atmosphere,  stood  out  in  con- 


244  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

trast  with  the  thicket  below  them,  veiled  in  delicate  green 
undergrowth.  The  lakes,  divided  by  strongly-built  embank- 
ments with  a  causeway  along  them  that  served  as  a  short  cut 
from  side  to  side  of  the  valley,  lay  like  three  mirrors,  each 
with  a  different  reflecting  surface,  the  water  trickling  from 
one  to  another  in  musical  cascades.  And  beyond  this,  from 
the  chalet  you  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  bleak  and  barren  com- 
mon lands,  the  pale  chalky  soil  (seen  from  the  balcony) 
looked  like  a  wide  sea,  and  supplied  a  contrast  with  the  fresh 
greenery  about  the  lake.  Veronique  saw  the  gladness  in  her 
friends'  faces  as  their  hands  were  held  out  to  assist  her  to 
enter  the  larger  boat,  tears  rose  to  her  eyes,  and  they  rowed 
on  in  silence  until  they  reached  the  first  causeway.  Here 
they  landed,  to  embark  again  on  the  second  lake ;  and  V6ro- 
nique,  looking  up,  saw  the  summer-house  on  the  island,  and 
Grosset^te  and  his  family  sitting  on  a  bench  before  it. 

"They  are  determined  to  make  me  regret  life,  it  seems," 
she  said,  turning  to  the  cur6. 

"We  want  to  keep  you  among  us,"  Clousier  said. 

"There  is  no  putting  life  into  the  dead,"  she  answered ; 
but  at  M.  Bonnet's  look  of  rebuke,  she  withdrew  into  herself 
again. 

"Simply  let  me  have  the  charge  of  your  health,"  pleaded 
Roubaud  in  a  gentle  voice ;  "I  am  sure  that  I  could  preserve 
her  who  is  the  living  glory  of  the  canton,  the  common  bond 
that  unites  the  lives  of  all  our  friends." 

Veronique  bent  her  head,  while  Gerard  rowed  slowly  out 
towards  the  island  in  the  middle  of  the  sheet  of  water,  the 
largest  of  the  three.  The  upper  lake  chanced  to  be  too  full ; 
the  distant  murmur  of  the  weir  seemed  to  find  a  voice  for  the 
lovely  landscape. 

"You  did  well  indeed  to  bring  me  here  to  bid  farewell  to 
this  entrancing  view !  "  she  said,  as  she  saw  the  beauty  of  the 
trees  so  full  of  leaves  that  they  hid  the  bank  on  either 
side. 


V^RONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE   70MB.  245 

The  only  sign  of  disapprobation  which  Veronique's  friends 
permitted  themselves  was  a  gloomy  silence  ;  and,  at  a  second 
glance  from  M.  Bonnet,  she  sprang  lightly  from  the  boat  with 
an  apparent  gaiety,  which  she  sustained.  Once  more  she  be- 
came the  lady  of  the  manor,  and  so  charming  was  she  that 
the  Grossetete  family  thought  that  they  saw  in  her  the  beauti- 
ful Mrae.  Graslin  of  old  da)rs. 

"  Assuredly,  you  may  live  yet,"  her  mother  said  in  Veron- 
ique's ear. 

On  that  pleasant  festival  day,  in  the  midst  of  a  scene  sub- 
limely transformed  by  the  use  of  nature's  own  resources,  how 
should  anything  wound  Veronique  ?  Yet  then  and  there  she 
received  her  death-blow. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  the  party  should  return  home 
towards  nine  o'clock  by  way  of  the  meadows  ;  for  the  roads, 
quite  as  fine  as  any  in  England  or  Italy,  were  the  pride  of 
their  engineer.  There  were  flints  in  abundance ;  as  the 
stones  were  taken  off  the  land  they  had  been  piled  in  heaps  by 
the  roadside ;  and  with  such  plenty  of  road-material,  it  was  so 
easy  to  keep  the  ways  in  good  order  that  in  five  years'  time 
they  were  ifi  a  manner  macadamized.  Carriages  were  waiting 
for  the  party  at  the  lower  end  of  the  valley  nearest  the  plain, 
almost  under  the  Living  Rock.  The  horses  had  all  been 
bred  in  Montegnac.  Their  trial  formed  part  of  the  pro- 
gramme for  the  day ;  for  these  were  the  first  that  were  ready 
for  sale,  the  manager  of  the  stud  having  just  sent  ten  of  them 
up  to  the  stables  of  the  ch§,teau.  Four  handsome  animals  in 
light  and  plain  harness  were  to  draw  Mme.  Graslin's  caldche, 
a  present  from  Grossetete. 

After  dinner  the  joyous  company  went  to  take  coffee  on  a 
promontory  where  a  little  wooden  kiosk  had  been  erected,  a 
copy  of  one  on  the  shores  of  the  Bosphorus.  From  this 
point  there  was  a  wide  outlook  over  the  lowest  lake,  stretch- 
ing away  to  the  great  barrier  across  the  Gabon,  now  covered 
thickly  with  a  luxuriant  growth  of  green,  a  charming  spot  for 


246  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

the  eyes  to  rest  upon.  Colorat's  house  and  the  old  cottage, 
now  restored,  were  the  only  buildings  in  the  landscape; 
Colorat's  capacities  were  scarcely  adequate  for  the  difficult 
post  of  head  forester  in  Montegnac,  so  he  had  succeeded  to 
Farrabesche's  office. 

From  this  point  Mme.  Graslin  fancied  that  she  could  see 
Francis  near  Farrabesche's  nursery  of  saplings ;  she  looked 
for  the  child,  and  could  not  find  him,  till  M.  Ruffin  pointed 
hira  out  playing  on  the  brink  of  the  lake  with  M.  Grosset^te's 
great-grandchildren.  Veronique  felt  afraid  that  some  acci- 
dent might  happen,  and,  without  listening  to  remonstrances, 
sprang  into  one  of  the  boats,  landed  on  the  causeway,  and 
herself  hurried  away  in  search  of  her  son.  This  little  inci- 
dent broke  up  the  party  on  the  island.  Grosset^te,  now  a 
venerable  great-grandfather,  was  the  first  to  suggest  a  walk 
along  the  beautiful  field-path  that  wound  up  and  down  by  the 
side  of  the  lower  lakes. 

Mme.  Graslin  saw  Francis  a  long  way  off.  He  was  with  a 
woman  in  mourning,  who  had  thrown  her  arms  about  him. 
She  seemed  to  be  from  a  foreign  country,  judging  by  her  dress 
and  the  shape  of  her  hat.  Veronique  in  dismay  called  her 
son  to  her. 

"  Who  is  that  woman  ?  "  she  asked  of  the  other  children ; 
** and  why  did  Francis  go  away  from  you? " 

"The  lady  called  him  by  his  name,"  said  one  of  the  little 
girls.  Mme.  Sauviat  and  Gerard,  who  were  ahead  of  the 
others,  came  up  at  that  moment. 

**  Who  is  that  woman,  dear?  "  said  Mme.  Graslin,  turning 
to  Francis. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "  but  no  one  kisses  me  like  that 
except  you  and  grandmamma.  She  was  crying,"  he  added  in 
his  mother's  ear. 

"  Shall  I  run  and  fetch  her?"  asked  G6rard. 

"No!"  said  Mme.  Graslin,  with  a  curtness  very  unusual 
with  her. 


V&RONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  247 

With  kindly  tact,  which  Veronique  appreciated,  Gerard 
took  the  little  ones  with  him  and  went  back  to  meet  the 
others;  so  that  Mme.  Sauviat,  Mme.  Graslin,  and  Francis 
were  left  together. 

"What  did  she  say  to  you?"  asked  Mme.  Sauviat,  ad- 
dressing her  grandson. 

"  I  don't  know.     She  did  not  speak  French." 

"Did  you  not  understand  anything  she  said?"  asked 
Veronique. 

"  Oh,  yes;  one  thing  she  said  over  and  over  again,  that  is 
how  I  can  remember  it — dear  brother  !  she  said." 

Veronique  leaned  on  her  mother's  arm  and  took  her  child's 
hand,  but  she  could  scarcely  walk,  and  her  strength  failed  her. 

"What  is  it? What  has  happened?" everyone 

asked  of  Mme.  Sauviat. 

A  cry  broke  from  the  old  Auvergnate  :  "  Oh  !  my  daughter 
is  in  danger!"  she  exclaimed,  in  her  guttural  accent  and 
deep  voice. 

Mme.  Graslin  had  to  be  carried  to  her  carriage.  She  or- 
dered Aline  to  keep  beside  Francis,  and  beckoned  to  G6rard. 

"You  have  been  in  England,  I  believe,"  she  said,  when 
she  had  recovered  herself;  "do  you  understand  English? 
What  do  these  words  mean — dear  brother  ?  ' ' 

"That  is  very  simple,"  said  Gerard,  and  he  explained. 

Veronique  exchanged  glances  with  Aline  and  Mme.  Sauviat ; 
the  two  women  shuddered,  but  controlled  their  feelings. 
Mme.  Graslin  sank  into  a  torpor  from  which  nothing  roused 
her;  she  did  not  heed  the  gleeful  voices  as  the  carriages 
started,  nor  the  splendor  of  the  sunset  light  on  the  meadows, 
the  t/en  pace  of  the  horses,  nor  the  laughter  of  the  friends 
who  followed  them  on  horseback  at  a  gallop.  Her  mother 
bade  the  man  drive  faster,  and  her  carriage  was  the  first  to 
reach  the  chateau.  When  the  rest  arrived  they  were  told 
that  V6ronique  had  gone  to  her  room,  and  would  see  no 
one. 


248  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"I  am  afraid  that  Mme.  Graslin  must  have  received  a  fatal 
wound,"  Gerard  began,  speaking  to  his  friends. 

**  Where  ? How  ? ' '  asked  they. 

"In  the  heart,"  answered  Gerard. 

Two  days  later  Roubaud  set  out  for  Paris.  He  had  seen 
that  Mme.  Graslin' s  life  was  in  danger,  and  to  save  her  he 
had  gone  to  summon  the  first  doctor  in  Paris  to  give  his  opin- 
ion of  the  case.  But  Veronique  had  only  consented  to  see 
Roubaud  to  put  an  end  to  the  importunities  of  Aline  and  her 
mother,  who  begged  her  to  be  more  careful  of  herself;  she 
knew  that  she  was  dying.  She  declined  to  see  M.  Bonnet, 
saying  that  the  time  had  not  yet  come ;  and  although  all  the 
friends  who  had  come  from  Limoges  for  her  birthday  festival 
were  anxious  to  stay  with  her,  she  entreated  them  to  pardon 
her  if  she  could  not  fulfill  the  duties  of  hospitality,  but  she 
needed  the  most  profound  solitude.  So,  a(ter  Roubaud's  sud- 
den departure,  the  guests  left  the  chateau  of  Mont6gnac  and 
went  back  to  Limoges,  not  so  much  in  disappointment  as  in 
despair,  for  all  who  had  come  with  Grossetete  adored  Veron- 
ique, and  were  utterly  at  a  loss  as  to  the  cause  of  this  mysteri- 
ous disaster. 

One  evening,  two  days  after  Grosset^te's  large  family  party 
had  left  the  chateau,  Aline  brought  a  visitor  to  Mme.  Graslin's 
room.  It  was  Catherine  Farrabesche.  At  first  Catherine 
stood  glued  to  the  spot,  so  astonished  was  she  at  this  sudden 
change  in  her  mistress,  the  features  so  drawn. 

"  Good  God  !  madame,  what  harm  that  poor  girl  has  done  ! 
If  only  we  could  have  known,  Farrabesche  and  I,  we  would 
never  have  taken  her  in.  She  has  just  heard  that  madame  is 
ill,  and  sent  me  to  tell  Mme.  Sauviat  that  she  should  like  to 
speak  to  her." 

'' Here r^  cried  Veronique.  "Where  is  she  at  this  mo- 
ment?" 

"My  husband  took  her  over  to  the  chalet." 

"Good,"  said  Mme.  Graslin;  "leave  us,  and  tell  Farra- 


V^RONIQVE  LAID  IN  THE   TOMB.  249 

besche  to  go.     Tell  the  lady  to  wait,  and  my  mother  will  go 
to  see  her." 

At  nightfall  Veronique,  leaning  on  her  mother's  arm,  crept 
slowly  across  the  park  to  the  chalet.  The  moon  shone  with 
its  most  brilliant  glory,  the  night  air  was  soft ;  the  two  women, 
both  shaken  with  emotion  that  they  could  not  conceal, 
received  in  some  sort  the  encouragement  of  nature.  From 
moment  to  moment  Mme.  Sauviat  stopped  and  made  her 
daughter  rest ;  for  Veronique's  sufferings  were  so  poignant  that 
it  was  nearly  midnight  before  they  reached  the  path  that 
turned  down  through  the  wood  to  the  meadows,  where  the 
chalet  roof  sparkled  like  silver.  The  moonlight  on  the  surface 
of  the  still  water  lent  it  a  pearly  hue.  The  faint  noises  of  the 
night,  which  travel  so  far  in  the  silence,  made  up  a  delicate 
harmony  of  sound. 

Veronique  sat  down  on  the  bench  outside  the  chalet  in  the 
midst  of  the  glorious  spectacle  beneath  the  starry  skies.  The 
murmur  of  two  voices  and  footfalls  on  the  sands  made  by  two 
persons  still  some  distance  away  was  borne  to  her  by  the 
water,  which  transmits  every  sound  in  the  stillness  as  faith- 
fully as  it  reflects  everything  in  its  calm  surface.  There  was 
an  exquisite  quality  in  the  intonation  of  one  of  the  voices,  by 
which  Veronique  recognized  the  cure,  and  with  the  rustle  of 
his  cassock  was  blended  the  light  sound  of  a  silk  dress. 
Evidently  there  was  a  woman. 

"Let  us  go  in,"  she  said  to  her  mother.  Mme.  Sauviat 
and  Veronique  sat  down  on  a  manger  in  the  low,  large  room 
built  for  a  cow-shed. 

"I  am  not  blaming  you  at  all,  my  child,"  the  cur6  was 
saying;  "but  you  may  be  the  innocent  cause  of  an  irrepara- 
ble misfortune,  for  she  is  the  life  and  soul  of  this  wide  coun- 
tryside." 

"Oh,  monsieur  !  I  will  go  to-night,"  the  stranger  woman's 
voice  answered ;  "  but — I  can  say  this  to  you — it  will  be  Ijke 
death  to  me  to  leave  my  country  a  second  time.     If  I  had 


260  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

stayed  a  day  longer  in  that  horrible  New  York  or  in  the  United 
States,  where  there  is  neither  hope  nor  faith  nor  charity,  I 
should  have  died  without  any  illness.  The  air  I  was  breath- 
ing hurt  my  chest,  the  food  did  me  no  good,  I  was  dying 
though  I  looked  full  of  life  and  health.  When  I  stepped  on 
board  the  suffering  ceased ;  I  felt  as  if  I  were  in  France. 
Ah,  monsieur!  I  have  seen  my  mother  and  my  brother's  wife 
die  of  grief.  And  then  my  grandfather  and  grandmother 
Tascheron  died — died,  dear  M.  Bonnet,  in  spite  of  the  un- 
heard-of prosperity  of  Tascheronville Yes.     Our  father 

began  a  settlement,  a  village  in  Ohio,  and  now  the  village  is 
almost  a  town.  One-third  of  the  land  thereabouts  belongs  to 
our  family,  for  God  has  watched  over  us  all  along,  and  the  farms 
have  done  well,  our  crops  are  magnificent,  and  we  are  rich — ; 
so  rich  that  we  managed  to  build  a  Catholic  church.  The 
whole  town  is  Catholic  ;  we  will  not  allow  any  other  worship, 
and  we  hope  to  convert  all  the  endless  sects  about  us  by  our 
example.  The  true  faith  is  in  a  minority  in  that  dreary, 
mercenary  land  of  the  dollar,  a  land  which  chills  one  to  the 
soul.  Still  I  would  go  back  to  die  there  sooner  than  to  do 
the  least  harm  here  or  give  the  slightest  pain  to  the  mother 
of  our  dear  Francis.  Only  take  me  to  the  parsonage  house 
to-night,  dear  M.  Bonnet,  so  that  I  can  pray  awhile  on  his 
grave;  it  was  just  that  that  drew  me  here,  for  as  I  came  nearer 
and  nearer  the  place  where  he  lies  I  felt  quite  a  different  being. 
No,  I  did  not  believe  I  should  feel  so  happy  here " 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  cure ;  "come,  let  us  go.  If  at  some 
future  day  you  can  come  back  without  evil  consequences,  I 
will  write  to  tell  you,  Denise ;  but  perhaps  after  this  visit  to 
your  old  home  you  may  feel  able  to  live  yonder  without  suffer- 
ing " 

"  Leave  this  country  now  when  it  is  so  beautiful  here ! 
Just  see  what  Mme.  Graslin  has  made  of  the  Gabon !  "  she 
added,  pointing  to  the  moonlit  lake.  "And  then  all  this  will 
belong  to  our  dear  Francis " 


VilRONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  251 

"You  shall  not  go,  Denise,"  said  Mme.  Graslin,  appear- 
ing in  the  stable  doorway. 

Jean-Francois  Tascheron's  sister  clasped  her  hands  at  the 
sight  of  this  ghost  who  spoke  to  her ;  for  Veronique's  white 
face  in  the  moonlight  looked  unsubstantial  as  a  shadow  against 
the  dark  background  of  the  open  stable-door.  Her  eyes 
glittered  like  two  stars. 

"No,  child,  you  shall  not  leave  the  country  you  have 
traveled  so  far  to  see,  and  you  shall  be  happy  here,  unless 
God  should  refuse  to  second  my  efforts  ;  for  God,  no  doubt, 
has  sent  you  here,  Denise." 

She  took  the  astonished  girl's  hand  in  hers,  and  went  with 
her  down  the  path  towards  the  opposite  shore  of  the  lake. 
Mme.  Sauviat  and  the  cure,  left  alone,  sat  down  on  the  bench. 

"Let  her  have  her  way,"  murmured  Mme.  Sauviat. 

A  few  minutes  later  Veronique  returned  alone ;  her  mother 
and  the  cure  brought  her  back  to  the  chateau.  Doubtless  she 
had  thought  of  some  plan  of  action  which  suited  the  mystery, 
for  nobody  saw  Denise,  no  one  knew  that  she  had  come 
back. 

Mme.  Graslin  took  to  her  bed,  nor  did  she  leave  it. 
Every  day  she  grew  worse.  It  seemed  to  vex  her  that  she 
could  not  rise,  for  again  and  again  she  made  vain  efforts  to 
get  up  and  take  a  walk  in  the  park.  One  morning  in  early 
June,  some  days  after  that  night  at  the  chalet,  she  made  a 
violent  effort  and  rose  and  tried  to  dress  herself,  as  if  for  a 
festival.  She  begged  Gerard  to  lend  her  his  arm;  for  her 
friends  came  daily  for  news  of  her,  and  when  Aline  said  that 
her  mistress  meant  to  go  out  they  all  hurried  up  to  the  chateau. 
Mme.  Graslin  had  summoned  all  her  remaining  strength  to 
spend  it  on  this  last  walk.  She  gained  her  object  by  a 
violent  spasmodic  effort  of  the  will,  inevitably  followed  by  a 
deadly  reaction. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  chalet — and  alone,"  she  said  to  Gerard. 
The  tones  of  her  voice  were  soft,  and  there  was  something 


262  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

like  coquetry  in  her  glance.  "  This  is  my  last  escapade,  for 
I  dreamed  last  night  that  the  doctors  had  come." 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  your  woods  ?  "  asked  Gerard. 

"For  the  last  time.  But,"  she  added,  in  coaxing  tones, 
**  I  have  some  strange  proposals  to  make  to  you." 

"Gerard,  by  her  direction,  rowed  her  across  the  second 
lake,  when  she  had  reached  it  on  foot.  He  was  at  a  loss  to 
understand  such  a  journey,  but  she  indicated  the  summer- 
house  as  their  destination,  and  he  plied  his  oars. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Her  eyes  wandered  over  the  hill- 
sides, the  water,  and  the  sky ;  then  she  spoke. 

"  My  friend,  it  is  a  strange  request  that  I  am  about  to  make 
to  you,  but  I  think  that  you  are  the  man  to  obey  me." 

"In  everything,"  he  said,  "sure  as  I  am  that  you  cannot 
will  anything  but  good." 

"I  want  you  to  marry,"  she  said;  "you  will  fulfill  the 
wishes  of  a  dying  woman,  who  is  certain  that  she  is  securing 
your  happiness." 

"  I  am  too  ugly !  "  said  Gdrard. 

^^  She  is  pretty,  she  is  young,  she  wants  to  live  in  Mon- 
I6gnac ;  and  if  you  marry  her,  you  will  do  something  towards 
making  my  last  moments  easier.  We  need  not  discuss  her 
qualities.  I  tell  you  this,  that  she  is  a  woman  of  a  thousand  ; 
and  as  for  her  charms,  youth,  and  beauty,  the  first  sight  will 
suffice,  we  shall  see  her  in  a  moment  in  the  summer-house. 
On  our  way  back  you  shall  give  me  your  answer,  a  '  Yes '  or 
a  *No,'  in  sober  earnest." 

Mme.  Graslin  smiled  as  she  saw  the  oars  move  more  swiftly 
after  this  confidence.  Denise,  who  was  living  out  of  sight  in 
the  island  sanctuary,  saw  Mme.  Graslin,  and  hurried  to  the 
door.  Veronique  and  Gerard  came  in.  In  spite  of  herself, 
the  poor  girl  flushed  as  she  met  the  eyes  that  Gerard  turned 
upon  her;  Denise's  beauty  was  an  agreeable  surprise  to  him. 

"  La  Curieux  does  not  let  you  want  for  anything,  does 
she  ? ' '  asked  Veronique. 


ViiRONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE   TOMB.  253 

"Look,  madame,"  said  Denise,  pointing  to  the  breakfast 
table. 

"  This  is  M.  Gerard,  of  whom  I  have  spoken  to  you," 
Veronique  went  on.  "  He  will  be  my  son's  guardian,  and 
when  I  am  dead  you  will  all  live  together  at  the  chateau  until 
Francis  comes  of  age." 

"  Oh,  madame  !  don't  talk  like  that." 

"Just  look  at  me,  child  !  "  said  Veronique,  and  all  at  once 
she  saw  tears  in  the  girl's  eyes.  "  She  comes  from  New 
York,"  she  added,  turning  to  Gerard. 

This  by  way  of  putting  both  on  a  footing  of  acquaintance. 
Gerard  asked  questions  of  Denise,  and  Mme.  Graslin  left 
them  to  chat,  going  to  look  out  over  the  view  of  the  last  lake 
on  the  Gabon.  At  six  o'clock  Gerard  and  Veronique  rowed 
back  to  the  chalet. 

"  Well  ?  "  queried  she,  looking  at  her  friend. 

**  You  have  my  word." 

**  You  maybe  without  prejudices,"  Veronique  began,  "  but 
you  ought  to  know  how  it  was  that  she  was  obliged  to 
leave  the  country,  poor  child,  brought  back  by  a  home-sick 
longing." 

"A  slip?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Veronique,  "or  should  I  introduce  her  to 
you  ?  She  is  the  sister  of  a  workman  who  died  on  the 
scaffold " 

"  Oh  !  Tascheron,  who  murdered  old  Pingret " 


"Yes.  She  is  a  murderer's  sister,"  said  Mme.  Graslin, 
with  inexpressible  irony  in  her  voice;  "you  can  take  back 
your  word." 

She  went  no  further.  Gerard  was  compelled  to  carry  her 
to  the  bench  at  the  chalet,  and  for  some  minutes  she  lay  there 
unconscious.  Gerard,  kneeling  beside  her,  said,  as  soon  as 
she  opened  her  eyes — 

"I  will  marry  Denise." 

Mme.  Graslin  made  him  rise,  she  took  his  head  in  her 


264  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

hands,  and  set  a  kiss  on  his  forehead.  Then,  seeing  that  he 
was  astonished  to  be  thus  thanked,  she  grasped  his  hand  and 
said — 

"  You  will  soon  know  the  meaning  of  this  puzzle.  Let  us 
try  to  reach  the  terrace  again,  our  friends  are  there.  It  is 
very  late,  and  I  feel  very  weak,  and  yet  I  should  like  to  bid 
farewell  from  afar  to  this  dear  plain  of  mine." 

The  weather  had  been  intolerably  hot  all  day ;  and  though 
the  storms,  which  did  so  much  damage  that  year  in  different 
parts  of  Europe  and  in  France  itself,  respected  the  Limousin, 
there  had  been  thunder  along  the  Loire,  and  the  air  began  to 
grow  fresher.  The  sky  was  so  pure  that  the  least  details  on 
the  horizon  were  sharp  and  clear.  ^  What  words  can  describe 
the  delicious  concert  of  sounds,  the  smothered  hum  of  the 
township,  now  alive  with  workers  returning  from  the  fields  ? 
It  would  need  the  combined  work  of  a  great  landscape 
painter  and  a  painter  of  figures  to  do  justice  to  such  a  picture. 
Is  there  not,  in  fact,  a  subtle  connection  between  the  lassitude 
of  nature  and  the  laborer's  weariness,  an  affinity  of  mood 
hardly  to  be  rendered  ?  In  the  tepid  twilight  of  the  dog 
days,  the  rarefied  air  gives  its  full  significance  to  the  least 
sound  made  by  every  living  thing. 

The  women  sit  chatting  at  their  doors  with  a  bit  of  work 
even  then  in  their  hands,  as  they  wait  for  the  good  man  who, 
probably,  will  bring  the  children  home.  The  smoke  going 
up  from  the  roofs  is  the  sign  of  the  last  meal  of  the  day  and 
the  gayest  for  the  peasants ;  after  it  they  will  sleep.  The  stir 
at  that  hour  is  the  expression  of  happy  and  tranquil  thoughts 
in  those  who  have  finished  their  day's  work.  There  is  a  very 
distinct  difference  between  their  evening  and  morning  snatches 
of  song ;  for  in  this  the  village-folk  are  like  the  birds,  the 
last  twitterings  at  night  are  utterly  unlike  their  notes  at  dawn. 
All  nature  joins  in  the  hymn  of  rest  at  the  end  of  the  day,  as 
in  the  hymn  of  gladness  at  sunrise ;  all  things  take  the  softly- 
blended  hues  that  the  sunset  throws  across  the  fields,  tingeing 


V^RONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  265 

the  dusty  roads  with  mellow  light.  If  any  should  be  bold 
enough  to  deny  the  influences  of  the  fairest  hour  of  the  day, 
the  very  flowers  would  convict  him  of  falsehood,  intoxicating 
him  with  their  subtlest  scents,  mingled  with  the  tenderest 
sounds  of  insects  the  amorous  faint  twitter  of  birds. 

Thin  films  of  mist  hovered  above  the  "  water-lanes"  that 
furrowed  the  plain  below  the  township.  The  poplars  and 
acacias  and  sumach  trees,  planted  in  equal  numbers  along  the 
roads,  had  grown  so  tall  already  that  they  shaded  it,  and  in  the 
wide  fields  on  either  side  the  large  and  celebrated  herds  of 
cattle  were  scattered  about  in  groups,  some  still  browsing, 
others  chewing  the  cud.  Men,  women,  and  children  were 
busy  getting  in  the  last  of  the  hay,  the  most  picturesque  of 
all  field-work.  The  evening  air,  less  languid  since  the  sudden 
breath  of  coolness  after  the  storms,  brought  the  wholesome 
scents  of  mown  grass  and  swathes  of  hay.  The  least  details 
in  the  beautiful  landscape  stood  out  perfectly  sharp  and  clear. 

There  was  some  fear  for  the  weather.  The  ricks  were  being 
finished  in  all  haste  ;  men  hurried  about  them  with  loaded 
forks,  raked  the  heaps  together,  and  loaded  the  carts.  Out  in 
the  distance  the  scythes  were  still  busy,  the  women  were  turn- 
ing the  long  swathes  that  looked  like  hatched  lines  across  the 
fields  into  dotted  rows  of  haycocks. 

Sounds  of  laughter  came  up  from  the  hayfields,  the  workers 
frolicked  over  their  work,  the  children  shouted  as  they  buried 
each  other  in  the  heaps.  Every  figure  was  distinct,  the 
women's  petticoats,  pink,  red,  or  blue,  their  kerchiefs,  their 
bare  arms  and  legs,  the  wide-brimmed  straw  hats  of  field- 
workers,  the  men's  shirts,  the  white  trousers  that  nearly  all 
of  them  wore. 

The  last  rays  of  sunlight  fell  like  a  bright  dust  over  the  long 
lines  of  poplar  trees  by  the  channels  which  divided  up  the 
plain  into  fields  of  various  sizes,  and  lingered  caressingly  over 
the  groups  of  men,  women,  and  children,  horses  and  carts  and 
cattle.     The  shepherds  and  herdsmen  began  to  gather  their 


256  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

flocks  together  with  the  sound  of  their  horns.  The  plain 
seemed  so  silent  and  so  full  of  sound,  a  strange  antithesis,  but 
only  strange  to  those  who  do  not  know  the  splendors  of  the 
fields.  Loads  of  green  fodder  came  into  the  township  from 
every  side.  There  was  something  indescribably  somnolent  in 
the  influence  of  the  scene,  and  Veronique,  between  the  cur6 
and  Gerard,  uttered  no  word. 

At  last  they  came  to  a  gap  made  by  a  rough  track  that  led 
from  the  houses  ranged  below  the  terrace  to  the  parsonage 
house  and  the  church ;  and,  looking  down  into  Montegnac, 
Gerard  and  M.  Bonnet  saw  the  upturned  faces  of  the  women, 
men,  and  children,  all  lookin'g  at  them.  Doubtless  it  was 
Mme.  Graslin  more  particularly  whom  they  followed  with 
their  eyes.  And  what  affection  and  gratitude  there  were  in 
their  way  of  doing  this  !  With  what  blessings  did  they  not 
greet  Veronique's  appearance  !  With  what  devout  intentness 
they  watched  the  three  benefactors  of  a  whole  countryside  ! 
It  was  as  if  man  added  a  hymn  of  gratitude  to  all  the  songs 
of  evening.  While  Mme.  Graslin  walked  with  her  eyes  set 
on  the  magnificent  distant  expanse  of  green,  her  dearest  crea- 
tion, the  mayor  and  the  cur6  watched  the  groups  below. 
There  was  no  mistake  about  their  expression  ;  grief,  melan- 
choly, and  regret,  mingled  with  hope,  were  plainly  visible  in 
them  all.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  Montegnac  but  knew  how 
that  M.  Roubaud  had  gone  to  Paris  to  fetch  some  great  doctors, 
and  that  the  beneficent  lady  of  the  canton  was  nearing  the 
end  of  a  fatal  illness.  On  market-days,  in  every  place  for 
thirty  miles  round,  the  peasants  asked  the  Montegnac  folk, 
"  How  is  your  mistress?  "  And  so  the  great  thought  of  death 
hovered  over  this  countryside,  amid  the  fair  picture  of  the 
hayfields. 

Far  off"  in  the  plain,  more  than  one  mower  sharpening  his 
scythe,  more  than  one  girl  leaning  on  her  rake,  or,  farmer 
among  his  stacks  of  hay,  looked  up  and  paused  thoughtfully 
to  watch  Mme.   Graslin,  their  great  lady,  the  pride  of  the 


V^RONIQUE  LAID  IN   THE    TOMB.  257 

Corrdze.  They  tried  to  discover  some  hopeful  sign,  or 
watched  her  admiringly,  prompted  by  a  feeling  which  put 
work  out  of  their  minds,  "  She  is  out  of  doors,  so  she  must 
be  better  !  "     The  simple  phrase  was  on  all  lips. 

Mme.  Graslin's  mother  was  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  terrace. 
Veronique  had  placed  a  cast-iron  garden-seat  in  the  corner,  so 
that  she  might  sit  there  and  look  down  into  the  churchyard 
through  the  balustrade.  Mme.  Sauviat  watched  her  daughter 
as  she  walked  along  the  terrace,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
She  knew  something  of  the  preternatural  effort  which  Veron. 
ique  was  making;  she  knew  that  even  at  that  moment  her 
daughter  was  suffering  fearful  pain,  and  that  it  was  only  a 
heroic  effort  of  will  that  enabled  her  to  stand.  Tears,  almost 
like  tears  of  blood,  found  their  way  down  among  the  sun- 
burned wrinkles  of  a  face  like  parchment,  that  seemed  as  if  it 
could  not  alter  one  crease  for  any  emotion  any  more.  Little 
Graslin,  standing  between  M.  Ruffin's  knees,  cried  for  sym- 
pathy. 

"What  is  the  matter,  child?"  the  tutor  asked  sharply. 

"  Grandmamma  is  crying " 

M.  Ruffin's  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  Mme.  Graslin,  who  was 
coming  towards  them ;  he  looked  at  Mme.  Sauviat ;  the 
Roman  matron's  face,  stony  with  sorrow  and  wet  with  tears, 
gave  him  a  great  shock.  That  dumb  grief  had  invested  the 
old  woman  with  a  certain  grandeur  and  sacredness. 

'*  Madame,  why  did  you  let  her  go  out?"  asked  the  tutor. 

Veronique  was  coming  nearer.  She  walked  like  a  queen, 
with  admirable  grace  in  her  whole  bearing.  And  Mme. 
Sauviat  knew  that  she  should  outlive  her  daughter,  and  in  the 
cry  of  despair  that  broke  from  her  a  secret  escaped  that  re- 
vealed many  things  which  roused  curiosity. 

"  To  think  of  it !  She  walks  and  wears  a  horrible  hair  shirt 
always  pricking  her  skin  !  " 

The  young  man's  blood  ran  cold  at  her  words ;  he  could 
not  be  insensible  to  the  exquisite  grace  of  Veronique's  raove- 
17 


258  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

merits,  and  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  the  cruel,  unrelenting 
mastery  that  the  soul  must  have  gained  over  the  body.  A 
Parisienne  famed  for  her  graceful  figure,  the  ease  of  her  car- 
riage and  bearing,  might  perhaps  have  feared  comparison  with 
Veronique  at  that  moment. 

*'  She  has  worn  it  for  thirteen  years,  ever  since  the  child 
was  weaned,"  the  old  woman  said,  pointing  to  young  Graslin. 
"  She  has  worked  miracles  here ;  and  if  they  but  knew  her  life, 
they  might  put  her  among  the  saints.  Nobody  has  seen  her 
eat  since  she  came  here,  do  you  know  why  ?  Aline  brings  her 
a  bit  of  dry  bread  three  times  a  day  on  a  great  platter  full  of 
ashes,  and  vegetables  cooked  in  water  without  any  salt,  on  a 
red  earthenware  dish  that  they  put  a  dog's  food  in  !  Yes. 
That  is  the  way  she  lives  who  has  given  life  to  the  canton. 
She  says  her  prayers  kneeling  on  the  hem  of  her  cilice.  She 
says  that  if  she  did  not  practice  these  austerities  she  could  not 
wear  the  smiling  face  you  see,  I  am  telling  you  this  "  (and 
the  old  woman's  voice  dropped  lower)  **  for  you  to  tell  it  to  the 
doctor  that  M.  Roubaud  has  gone  to  fetch  from  Paris.  If  he 
will  prevent  my  daughter  from  continuing  these  penances, 
they  might  save  her  yet  (who  knows?),  though  the  hand  of 
death  is  on  her  head.  Look  !  Ah,  I  must  be  very  strong  to 
have  borne  all  these  things  for  fifteen  years." 

The  old  woman  took  her  grandson's  hand,  raised  it,  and 
passed  it  over  her  forehead  and  cheeks  as  if  some  restorative 
balm  communicated  itself  in  the  touch  of  the  little  hand ;  then 
she  set  a  kiss  upon  it,  a  kiss  full  of  the  love  which  is  the  secret  of 
grandmothers  no  less  than  mothers.  By  this  time  Veronique 
was  only  a  few  paces  distant,  Clousier  was  with  her,  and  the 
cur6  and  Gerard.  Her  face,  lit  up  by  the  setting  sun,  was 
radiant  with  awful  beauty. 

One  thought,  steadfast  amid  many  inward  troubles,  seemed 
to  be  written  in  the  lines  that  furrowed  the  sallow  forehead 
in  long  folds  piled  one  above  the  other,  like  clouds.  The 
outlines  of  her  face,  now  completely  colorless,  entirely  white 


VJkRONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  359 

with  the  dead  olive-tinged  whiteness  of  plants  grown  without 
sunlight,  were  thin  but  not  withered,  and  showed  traces  of 
great  physical  suffering  produced  by  mental  anguish.  She 
had  quelled  the  body  through  the  soul,  and  the  soul  through 
the  body.  So  completely  worn  out  was  she  that  she  resem- 
bled her  past  self  only  as  an  old  woman  resembles  her  portrait 
painted  in  girlhood.  The  glowing  expression  of  her  eyes 
spoke  of  the  absolute  domination  of  a  Christian  will  over  a 
body  reduced  to  the  subjection  required  by  religion,  for  in 
this  woman  the  flesh  was  at  the  mercy  of  the  spirit.  As  in 
profane  poetry  Achilles  dragged  the  dead  body  of  Hector, 
victoriously  she  dragged  it  over  the  stormy  ways  of  life ;  and 
thus  for  fifteen  years  she  had  compassed  the  heavenly  Jerusa- 
lem which  she  had  hoped  to  enter,  not  as  a  thief,  but  amid 
triumphant  acclamations.  Never  was  anchorite  amid  the 
parched  and  arid  deserts  of  Africa  more  master  of  his  senses 
than  Veronique  in  her  splendid  chateau  in  a  rich  land  of  soft 
and  luxurious  landscape,  nestling  under  the  mantle  of  the 
great  forest  where  science,  heir  to  Moses'  rod,  had  caused 
plenty  to  spring  forth  and  the  prosperity  and  the  welfare  of  a 
whole  countryside.  Veronique  was  looking  out  over  the 
results  of  twelve  years  of  patience,  on  the  accomplishment  of 
a  task  on  which  a  man  of  ability  might  have  prided  himself; 
but  with  the  gentle  modesty  which  Pontorno's  brush  had 
depicted  in  the  expression  of  his  symbolical  "  Christian 
Chastity  " — with  her  arms  about  the  unicorn.  Her  two  com- 
panions respected  her  silent  mood  when  they  saw  that  she  was 
gazing  over  the  vast  plain,  once  sterile,  and  now  fertile ;  the 
devout  lady  of  the  manor  went  with  folded  arms  and  eyes 
fixed  on  the  point  where  the  road  reached  the  horizon. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  when  but  two  paces  away  from  Mme. 
Sauviat,  who  watched  her  as  Christ's  mother  must  have  gazed 
at  her  Son  upon  the  cross.  Veronique  raised  her  hand  and 
pointed  to  the  spot  where  the  road  turned  oflf  to  Mon- 
tegnac. 


260  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"Do  you  see  that  caldche  and  the  four  post-horses?"  she 
asked,  smiling.  "  That  is  M.  Roubaud.  He  is  coming 
back.  We  shall  soon  know  now  how  many  hours  I  have 
to  live." 

''Hours!''  echoed  Gerard. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  this  was  my  last  walk?  "  she  said. 
"  Did  I  not  come  to  see  this  beautiful  view  in  all  its  glory  for 
the  last  time?" 

She  indicated  the  fair  meadow  land,  lit  up  by  the  last 
rays  of  the  sun,  and  the  township  below.  All  the  village 
had  come  out  and  stood  in  the  square  in  front  of  the 
church. 

"Ah!"  she  went  on,  "let  me  think  that  there  is  God's 
benediction  in  the  strange  atmospheric  conditions  that  have 
favored  our  hay-harvest.  Storms  all  about  us,  rain  and 
hail  and  thunder  have  laid  waste  pitilessly  and  incessantly, 
but  not  here.  The  people  think  so;  why  should  not  I 
follow  their  example?  I  need  so  much  to  find  some  good 
augury  on  earth  for  that  which  awaits  me  when  my  eyes 
shall  be  closed  !  " 

Her  child  came  to  her,  took  his  mother's  hand,  and  laid  it 
on  his  hair.  The  great  eloquence  of  that  movement  touched 
V^ronique ;  with  preternatural  strength  she  caught  him  up, 
held  him  on  her  left  arm  a  moment  as  she  used  to  hold  him 
as  a  child  at  the  breast,  and  kissed  him.  "  Do  you  see  this 
land,  my  boy?"  she  said.  "You  must  go  on  with  your 
mother's  work  when  you  are  a  man." 

Then  the  cure  spoke  sadly:  "There  are  a  very  few  strong 
and  privileged  natures  who  are  permitted  to  see  death  face  to 
face,  to  fight  a  long  duel  with  him,  and  to  show  courage  and 
skill  that  strike  others  with  admiration ;  this  is  the  dreadful 
spectacle  that  you  give  us,  madame ;  but,  perhaps,  you  are 
somewhat  wanting  in  pity  for  us.  Leave  us  at  least  the  hope 
that  you  are  mistaken,  that  God  will  permit  you  to  finish  all 
that  you  have  begun." 


V&RONIQUE   LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  261 

**I  have  done  nothing  save  through  you,  my  friend,"  said 
she.  ' '  It  was  in  my  power  to  be  useful  to  you ;  it  is  so  no 
longer.  Everything  about  us  is  green ;  there  is  no  desolate 
waste  here  now,  save  my  own  heart.  You  know  it,  dear  cur6, 
you  know  that  I  can  only  find  peace  and  pardon  there " 

She  held  out  her  hand  over  the  churchyard.  She  had  never 
said  so  much  since  the  day  when  she  first  came  to  Montegnac 
and  fainted  away  on  that  very  spot.  The  cure  gazed  at  his 
penitent ;  and,  accustomed  as  he  had  been  for  long  to  read 
her  thoughts,  he  knew  from  those  simple  words  that  he  had 
won  a  fresh  victory.  It  must  have  cost  Veronique  a  terrible 
effort  over  herself  to  break  a  twelve  years'  silence  with  such 
pregnant  words ;  and  the  cure  clasped  his  hands  with  the 
devout  fervor  familiar  to  him,  and  looked  with  deep  religious 
emotion  on  the  family  group  about  him.  All  their  secrets 
had  passed  through  his  heart. 

Gerard  looked  bewildered ;  the  words  **  peace  and  pardon  " 
seemed  to  sound  strangely  in  his  ears  ;  M.  Ruffin's  eyes  were 
fixed  in  a  sort  of  dull  amazement  on  Mme.  Graslin,  And 
meanwhile  the  caleche  sped  rapidly  along  the  road,  threading 
its  way  from  tree  to  tree. 

"There  are  five  of  them  !  "  said  the  cur6,  who  could  see 
and  count  the  travelers. 

"  Five  !  "  exclaimed  M.  Gerard.  "  Will  five  of  them  know 
more  than  two?  " 

**  Ah  !  "  murmured  Mme.  Graslin,  who  leaned  on  the  curb's 
arm,  "  there  is  the  public  prosecutor.  "  What  does  he  come 
to  do  here?" 

**  And  papa  Grossetete  too  !  "  cried  Francis, 

"Madame,  take  courage,  be  worthy  of  yourself,"  said  the 
cur6.  He  drew  Mme.  Graslin,  who  was  leaning  heavily  on 
him,  a  few  paces  aside. 

"What  does  he  want?"  she  said  for  all  answer,  and  she 
went  to  lean  against  the  balustrade.  "Mother!"  she  ex- 
claimed, despairingly. 


262  THE   COUNTK  Y  F ARSON. 

Mme.  Sauviat  sprang  forward  with  an  activity  that  belied 
her  years. 

**  I  shall  see  him  again "  said  Veronique. 

"If  he  is  coming  with  M.  Grossetfite,"  said  the  cur6,  "it 
can  only  be  with  good  intentions,  of  course," 

"  Ah  !  sir,  my  daughter  is  dying  !  "  cried  Mme.  Sauviat, 
seeing  the  change  that  passed  over  Mme.  Graslin's  face  at  the 
words.  "How  will  she  endure  such  cruel  agitations?  M. 
Grossetdte  has  always  prevented  that  man  from  coming  to  see 
Veronique " 

V6ronique's  face  flamed. 

"So  you  hate  him,  do  you?"  the  Abb6  Bonnet  asked, 
turning  to  his  penitent. 

"  She  left  Limoges  lest  all  Limoges  should  know  her  secrets," 
said  Mme.  Sauviat,  terrified  by  that  sudden  change  wrought 
in  Mme.  Graslin's  drawn  features. 

"  Do  you  not  see  that  his  presence  will  poison  the  hours 
that  remain  to  me,  when  heaven  alone  should  be  in  my 
thoughts?  He  is  nailing  me  down  to  earth !  "  cried  Veron- 
ique. 

The  cur6  took  Mme.  Graslin's  arm  once  more,  and  con- 
strained her  to  walk  a  few  paces;  when  they  were  alone,  he 
looked  full  at  her  with  one  of  those  angelic  looks  which  calm 
the  most  violent  tumult  in  the  soul. 

"If  it  is  thus,"  he  said,  "I,  as  your  confessor,  bid  you  to 
receive  him,  to  be  kind  and  gracious  to  him,  to  lay  aside  this 
garment  of  anger,  and  to  forgive  him  as  God  will  forgive  you. 
Can  there  be  a  taint  of  passion  in  the  soul  that  I  deemed 
purified?  Burn  this  last  grain  of  incense  on  the  altar  of 
penitence,  lest  all  shall  be  one  lie  in  you." 

"  There  was  still  this  last  struggle  to  make,  and  it  is  made," 
she  said,  drying  her  eyes.  "  The  evil  one  was  lurking  in  the 
last  recess  in  my  heart,  and  doubtless  it  was  God  who  put  into 
M.  de  Granville's  heart  the  thought  that  sends  him  here.  How 
many  times  will  He  smite  me  yet?"  she  cried. 


VERONIQUE  LAID  IN   THE    TOMB.  263 

She  stopped  as  if  to  put  up  an  inward  prayer;  then  she 
turned  to  Mme.  Sauviat,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  Mother  dear,  be  nice  and  kind  to  M.  le  Procureur 
general." 

In  spite  of  herself,  the  old  Auvergnate  shuddered  feverishly. 

"There  is  no  hope  left,"  she  said,  as  she  caught  at  the 
cure's  hand. 

As  she  spoke,  the  cracking  of  the  postillion's  whip  announced 
that  the  caleche  was  climbing  the  avenue;  the  great  gateway 
stood  open,  the  carriage  turned  in  the  courtyard,  and  in 
another  moment  the  travelers  came  out  upon  the  terrace. 
Beside  the  public  prosecutor  and  M.  GrossetSte,  the  arch- 
bishop had  come  (M.  Dutheil  was  in  Limoges  for  Gabriel  de 
Rastignac's  consecration  as  bishop),  and  M.  Roubaud  came 
arm  in  arm  with  Horace  Bianchon,  one  of  the  greatest 
doctors  in  Paris. 

"  You  are  welcome,"  said  Veronique,  addressing  her  guests, 
** and  you^^  (holding  out  a  hand  to  the  public  prosecutor  and 
grasping  his)  "especially  welcome." 

M.  Grossetdte,  the  archbishop,  and  Mme.  Sauviat  ex- 
changed glances  at  this;  so  great  was  their  astonishment 
that  it  overcame  the  profound  discretion  of  old  age. 

"And  I  thank  him  who  brought  you  here,"  Veronique 
went  on,  as  she  looked  on  the  Comte  de  Granville's  face  for 
the  first  time  in  fifteen  years.  "  I  have  borne  you  a  grudge 
for  a  long  time,  but  now  I  know  that  I  have  done  you  an 
injustice  ;  you  shall  know  the  reason  of  all  this  if  you  will 
stay  here  in  Montegnac  for  two  days."  She  turned  to  Horace 
Bianchon — "  This  gentleman  will  confirm  my  apprehensions, 
no  doubt."  Then  to  the  archbishop — "It  is  God  surely 
who  sends  you  to  me,  my  lord,"  she  said  with  a  bow.  "  For 
our  old  friendship's  sake  you  will  not  refuse  to  be  with  me  in 
my  last  moments.  By  what  grace,  I  wonder,  have  I  all  those 
who  have  loved  me  and  sustained  me  all  my  life  about  me 
now?" 


264  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

At  the  word  "  love  "  she  turned  with  graceful,  deliberate 
intent  towards  M.  de  Granville ;  the  kindness  in  her  manner 
brought  tears  into  his  eyes.  There  was  a  deep  silence.  The 
two  doctors  asked  themselves  what  witchcraft  it  was  that 
enabled  the  woman  before  them  to  stand  upright  while  endur- 
ing the  agony  which  she  must  suffer.  The  other  three  were  so 
shocked  at  the  change  that  illness  had  wrought  in  her  that 
they  could  only  communicate  their  thoughts  by  the  eyes. 

"Permit  me  to  go  with  these  gentlemen,"  she  said,  with 
her  unvarying  grace  of  manner;  "it  is  an  urgent  question." 
She  took  leave  of  her  guests,  and,  leaning  upon  the  two 
doctors,  went  towards  the  chdteau  so  slowly  and  painfully  that 
it  was  evident  that  the  end  was  at  hand. 

The  archbishop  looked  at  the  cure. 

•'  M.  Bonnet,"  he  said,  "you  have  worked  wonders  !  " 

"  Not  I,  but  God,  my  lord,"  answered  the  other. 

"  They  said  that  she  was  dying,"  exclaimed  M.  Grossetdte  ; 
"  why,  she  is  dead  !     There  is  nothing  left  but  a  spirit " 

"A  soul,"  said  M.  Gerard. 

"  She  is  the  same  as  ever,"  cried  the  public  prosecutor. 

"She  is  a  Stoic  after  the  manner  of  the  old  Greek  Zeno," 
said  the  tutor. 

Silently  they  went  along  the  terrace  and  looked  out  over 
the  landscape  that  glowed  a  most  glorious  red  color  in  the 
light  shed  abroad  by  the  fires  of  the  sunset. 

"It  is  thirteen  years  since  I  saw  this  before,"  said  the  arch- 
bishop, indicating  the  fertile  fields,  the  valley,  and  the  hill 
above  Mont^gnac,  "so  for  me  this  miracle  is  as  extraordi- 
nary as  another  which  I  have  just  witnessed  ;  for  how  can  you 
let  Mme.  Graslin  stand  upright?  She  ought  to  be  lying  in 
bed " 

"So  she  was,"  said  Mme.  Sauviat.  "She  never  left  her 
bed  for  ten  days,  but  she  was  determined  to  get  up  to  see 
this  place  for  the  last  time." 

"I  understand,"  said  M.  de  Granville.     "She  wished  to 


VilRONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE   TOMB.  265 

say  farewell  to  all  that  she  had  called  into  being,  but  she  ran 
the  risk  of  dying  here  on  the  terrace." 

"  M.  Roubaud  said  that  she  was  not  to  be  thwarted,"  said 
Mme.  Sauviat. 

"What  a  marvelous  thing!"  exclaimed  the  archbishop, 
whose  eyes  never  wearied  of  wandering  over  the  view.  **  She 
has  made  the  waste  into  sown  fields.  But  we  know,  mon- 
sieur," he  added,  turning  to  Gerard,  "that  your  skill  and 
your  labors  have  been  a  great  factor  in  this." 

"  We  have  only  been  her  laborers,"  the  mayor  said.  "  Yes ; 
we  are  only  the  hands,  she  was  the  head." 

Mme.  Sauviat  left  the  group,  and  went  to  hear  what  the 
opinion  of  the  doctor  from  Paris  was. 

"  We  shall  stand  in  need  of  heroism  to  be  present  at  this 
death-bed,"  said  the  public  prosecutor,  addressing  the  arch- 
bishop and  the  cure. 

"Yes,"  said  M.  GrossetSte ;  "but  for  such  a  friend,  great 
things  should  be  done." 

While  they  waited  and  came  and  went,  oppressed  by  heavy 
thoughts,  two  of  Mme.  Graslin's  tenants  came  up.  They  had 
come,  they  said,  on  behalf  of  a  whole  township  waiting  in 
•painful  suspense  to  hear  the  verdict  of  the  doctor  from  Paris. 

"  They  are  in  consultation,  we  know  nothing  as  yet,  my 
friends,"  said  the  archbishop. 

M.  Roubaud  came  hurrying  towards  them,  and  at  the  sound 
of  his  quick  footsteps  the  others  hastened  to  meet  him. 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  the  mayor. 

"She  has  not  forty-eight  hours  to  live,"  answered  M.  Rou- 
baud. "  The  disease  has  developed  while  I  was  away.  M. 
Bianchon  cannot  understand  how  she  could  walk.  These  sel- 
dom seen  phenomena  are  always  the  result  of  great  exaltation 
of  mind.  And  so,  gentlemen,"  he  added,  speaking  to  the 
churchmen,  "she  has  passed  out  of  our  hands  and  into  yours; 
science  is  powerless  ;  my  illustrious  colleague  thinks  that  there 
is  scarcely  time  for  the  ceremonies  of  the  church." 


266  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

"Let  US  put  up  the  prayers  appointed  for  times  of  great 
calamity,"  said  the  cure,  and  he  went  away  with  his  parish- 
ioners. "  His  lordship  will  no  doubt  condescend  to  admin- 
ister the  last  sacraments." 

The  archbishop  bowed  his  head  in  reply ;  he  could  not  say 
a  word,  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  The  group  sat  down  or 
leaned  against  the  balustrade,  and  each  was  deep  in  his  own 
thoughts.  The  church  bells  peeled  mournfully,  the  sound  of 
many  footsteps  came  up  from  below,  the  whole  village  was 
flocking  to  the  service.  The  light  of  the  altar  candles  gleamed 
through  tlie  trees  in  M.  Bonnet's  garden,  and  then  began  the 
sounds  of  chanting.  A  faintly  flushed  twilight  overspread  the 
fields,  the  birds  had  ceased  to  sing,  and  the  only  sound  in 
the  plain  was  the  shrill,  melancholy,  long-drawn  note  of  the 
frogs. 

**  Let  us  do  our  duty,"  said  the  archbishop  at  last,  and  he 
went  slowly  towards  the  house,  like  a  man  who  carries  a  burden 
greater  than  he  can  bear. 

The  consultation  had  taken  place  in  the  great  drawing- 
room,  a  vast  apartment  which  communicated  with  a  state 
bedroom,  draped  with  crimson  damask.  Here  Graslin  had 
exhibited  to  the  full  the  self-made  man's  taste  for  display. 
Veronique  had  not  entered  the  room  half-a-dozen  times  in 
fourteen  years ;  the  great  suite  of  apartments  was  completely 
useless  to  her ;  she  had  never  received  visitors  in  them,  but 
the  effort  she  had  made  to  discharge  her  last  obligations  and 
to  quell  her  revolted  physical  nature  had  left  her  powerless  to 
reach  her  own  rooms. 

The  great  doctor  had  taken  his  patient's  hand  and  felt  her 
pulse,  then  he  looked  significantly  at  M.  Roubaud,  and  the 
two  men  carried  her  into  the  adjoining  room  and  laid  her  on 
the  bed,  Aline  hastily  flinging  open  the  doors  for  them.  There 
were,  of  course,  no  sheets  on  the  state  bed  ;  the  two  doctors 
laid  Mme.  Graslin  at  full  length  on  the  crimson  quilt,  Roubaud 
opened  the  windows,  flung  back  the  Venetian  shutters,  and 


V&RONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  267 

summoned  help.  La  Sauviat  and  the  servants  came  hurrying 
to  the  room  ;  they  lighted  the  wax-candles  (yellow  with  age) 
in  the  sconces. 

Then  the  dying  woman  smiled.  "  It  is  decreed  that  my 
death  shall  be  a  festival,  as  a  Christian's  death  should  be." 

During  the  consultation  she  spoke  again — 

"  The  public  prosecutor  has  done  his  work:  I  was  going j 
he  has  despatched  me  sooner " 

The  old  mother  laid  a  finger  on  her  lips  with  a  warning 
glance. 

"Mother,  I  will  speak  now,"  Veronique  said  in  answer. 
"  Look  !  the  finger  of  God  is  in  all  this ;  I  shall  die  very  soon 
in  this  room  hung  with  red " 

La  Sauviat  went  out  in  dismay  at  the  words. 

"Aline  !  "  she  cried,  "  she  is  speaking  out  !- 


"Ah!  raadame's  mind  is  wandering,"  said  the  faithful 
waiting-woman,  coming  in  with  the  sheets.  "  Send  for  M.  le 
Cure,  madame." 

"  You  must  undress  your  mistress,"  said  Bianchon,  as  soon 
as  Aline  entered  the  room. 

"  It  will  be  very  difficult ;  madame  wears  a  hair  shirt  next 
her  skin." 

"What?"  the  great  doctor  cried,  "are  such  horrors  still 
practiced  in  this  nineteenth  century  ?  " 

"  Mme.  Graslin  has  never  allowed  me  to  touch  the 
stomach,"  said  M.  Roubaud.  "  I  could  learn  nothing  of  her 
complaint  save  from  her  face  and  her  pulse,  and  from  what  I 
could  learn  from  her  mother  and  her  maid." 

Veronique  was  laid  on  a  sofa  while  they  made  the  great  bed 
ready  for  her  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  The  doctors 
spoke  together  with  lowered  voices  as  La  Sauviat  and  Aline 
made  the  bed.  There  was  a  look  terrible  to  see  in  the  two 
women's  faces;  the  same  thought  was  wringing  both  their 
hearts.  "  We  are  making  her  bed  for  the  last  time — this  will 
be  her  bed  of  death." 


288  THE    COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Tlie  consultation  was  brief.  In  the  first  place,  Bianchon 
insisted  that  Aline  and  La  Sauviat  must  cut  the  patient  out  of 
the  cilice  and  put  her  in  a  nightdress.  The  two  doctors 
waited  in  the  great  drawing-room  while  this  was  done.  Aline 
came  out  with  the  terrible  instrument  of  penance  wrapped 
in  a  towel.     "  Madame  is  just  one  wound,"  she  told  them. 

"Madame,  you  have  a  stronger  will  than  Napoleon  had," 
said  Bianchon,  when  the  two  doctors  had  come  in  again,  and 
V6ronique  had  given  clear  answers  to  the  questions  put  to  her. 
"  You  are  preserving  your  faculties  in  the  last  stage  of  a  dis- 
ease in  which  the  Emperor's  brilliant  intellect  sank.  From 
what  I  know  of  you,  I  feel  that  I  owe  it  to  you  to  tell  you 
the  truth." 

"  I  implore  you,  with  clasped  hands,  to  tell  it  me,"  she  said  ; 
**  you  can  measure  the  strength  that  remains  to  me,  and  I 
have  need  of  all  the  life  that  is  in  me  for  a  few  hours  yet." 

"You  must  think  of  nothing  but  your  salvation,"  said 
Bianchon. 

"If  God  grants  that  body  and  mind  die  together,"  she 
said,  with  a  divinely  sweet  smile,  "believe  that  the  favor  is 
vouchsafed  for  the  glory  of  His  Church  on  earth.  My  mind 
is  still  needed  to  carry  out  a  thought  from  God,  while  Napoleon 
had  accomplished  his  destiny." 

The  two  doctors  looked  at  each  other  in  amazement ;  the 
words  were  spoken  as  easily  as  if  Mme.  Graslin  had  been  in 
her  drawing-room. 

"  Ah  !  here  is  the  doctor  who  will  heal  me,"  she  added,  as 
the  archbishop  entered. 

She  summoned  all  her  strength  to  sit  upright  to  take  leave 
of  M.  Bianchon,  speaking  graciously,  and  asking  him  to 
accept  something  beside  money  for  the  good  news  which  he 
had  just  brought  her ;  then  she  whispered  a  few  words  to  her 
mother,  who  went  out  with  the  doctor.  She  asked  the  arch- 
bishop to  wait  until  the  cur6  should  come,  and  seemed  to  wish 
to  rest  for  a  little  while.     Aline  sat  by  her  mistress'  bedside. 


V&RONIQUE   LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  269 

At  midnight  Mme.  Graslin  woke  and  asked  for  the  arch- 
bishop and  the  cure.  Aline  told  her  that  they  were  in  the 
room  engaged  in  prayer  for  her.  With  a  sign  she  dismissed 
her  mother  and  the  maid,  and  beckoned  the  two  priests  to 
her  bed. 

"  Nothing  of  what  I  shall  say  is  unknown  to  you,  my  lord, 
nor  to  you,  M.  le  Cure.  You,  my  lord  archbishop,  were  the 
first  to  look  into  my  conscience ;  at  a  glance  you  read  almost 
the  whole  past,  and  that  which  you  saw  was  enough  for  you. 
My  confessor,  an  angel  sent  by  heaven  to  be  near  me,  knows 
something  more;  I  have  confessed  all  to  him,  as  in  duty 
bound.  And  now  I  wish  to  consult  you — whose  minds  are 
enlightened  by  the  spirit  of  the  church ;  I  want  to  ask  you 
how  such  a  woman  as  I  should  take  leave  of  this  life  as  a  true 
Christian.  You,  spirits  holy  and  austere,  do  you  think  that 
if  heaven  vouchsafes  pardon  to  the  most  complete  and  pro- 
found repentance  ever  made  by  a  guilty  soul,  I  shall  have 
accomplished  my  whole  task  here  on  earth  ?  " 

"Yes;  yes,  my  daughter,"  said  the  archbishop. 

"No,  my  father,  no!"  she  cried,  sitting  upright,  and 
lightnings  flashed  from  her  eyes.  "  Yonder  lies  an  unhappy 
man  in  his  grave,  not  many  steps  away,  under  the  sole  weight 
of  a  hideous  crime ;  here,  in  this  sumptuous  house,  there  is  a 
woman  crowned  with  the  aureole  of  good  deeds  and  a  virtu- 
ous life.  They  bless  the  woman  ;  they  curse  him,  poor  boy. 
On  the  criminal  they  heap  execrations,  I  enjoy  the  good 
opinion  of  all ;  yet  most  of  the  blame  of  his  crime  is  mine, 
and  a  great  part  of  the  good  for  which  they  praise  me  so  and 
are  grateful  to  me  is  his ;  cheat  that  I  am  !  I  have  the  credit 
of  it,  and  he,  a  martyr  to  his  loyalty  to  me,  is  covered  with 
shame.  In  a  few  hours  I  shall  die,  and  a  whole  canton  will 
weep  for  me,  a  whole  department  will  praise  my  good  deeds, 
my  piety,  and  my  virtues  ;  and  he  died  reviled  and  scorned, 
a  whole  town  crowding  about  to  see  him  die,  for  hate  of  the 
murderer !     You,  my  judges,  are  indulgent  to  me,  but  I  hear 


270  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

an  imperious  voice  within  me  that  will  not  let  me  rest.  Ah  ! 
God's  hand,  more  heavy  than  yours,  has  been  laid  upon  me 
day  by  day,  as  if  to  warn  me  that  all  was  not  expiated  yet. 
My  sin  shall  be  redeemed  by  public  confession.  Oh  !  he  was 
happy,  that  criminal  who  went  to  a  shameful  death  in  the  face 
of  earth  and  heaven  !  But  as  for  me,  I  cheated  justice,  and 
I  am  still  a  cheat !  All  the  respect  shown  to  me  has  been  like 
mockery,  not  a  word  of  praise  but  has  scorched  my  heart 
like  fire.  And  now  the  public  prosecutor  has  come  here.  Do 
you  not  see  that  the  will  of  heaven  is  in  accordance  with  this 
voice  that  cries  *  Confess  ? ' " 

Both  priests,  the  prince  of  the  church  and  the  simple 
country  parson,  the  two  great  luminaries,  remained  silent,  and 
kept  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  So  deeply  moved 
were  the  judges  by  the  greatness  and  the  submission  of  the 
sinner  that  they  could  not  pass  sentence.  After  a  pause,  the 
archbishop  raised  his  noble  face,  thin  and  worn  with  the  daily 
practice  of  austerity  in  a  devout  life. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  you  are  going  beyond  the  command- 
ments of  the  church.  It  is  the  glory  of  the  church  that  she 
adapts  her  dogmas  to  the  conditions  of  life  in  every  age ;  for 
the  church  is  destined  to  make  the  pilgrimage  of  the  centuries 
side  by  side  with  humanity.  According  to  the  decision  of 
the  church,  private  confession  has  replaced  public  confession. 
This  substitution  has  made  the  new  rule  of  life.  The  suffer- 
ings which  you  have  endured  suffice.  Depart  in  peace.  God 
has  heard  you  indeed." 

"  But  is  not  this  wish  of  a  criminal  in  accordance  with  the 
rule  of  the  early  church,  which  filled  heaven  with  as  many 
saints  and  martyrs  and  confessors  as  there  are  stars  in  heaven?" 
V6ronique  cried  earnestly.  "Who  was  it '^that  wrote  'Con- 
fess your  faults  one  to  another  ? '  Was  it  not  one  of  our 
Saviour's  own  immediate  disciples?  Let  me  confess  my 
shame  publicly  upon  my  knees.  That  will  be  an  expiation 
of  the  wrong  that  I  have  done  to  the  world,  and  to  a  family 


V&RONJQUE  LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  271 

exiled  and  almost  extinct  through  my  sin.  The  world  should 
know  that  my  good  deeds  are  not  an  offering  to  God ;  that 

they  are  only  the  just  payment  of  a  debt Suppose  that, 

when  I  am  gone,  some  finger  should  raise  the  veil  of  lies  that 

covers  me  ? Oh,  the  thought  of  it  brings  the  supreme  hour 

nearer, ' ' 

•*I  see  calculation  in  this,  my  child,"  the  archbishop  said 
gravely.  *' There  are  still  strong  passions  left  in  you;  that 
which  I  deemed  extinguished  is " 

"  My  lord,"  she  cried,  breaking  in  upon  the  speaker,  turn- 
ing her  fixed  horror-stricken  eyes  on  him,  "  I  swear  to  you  that 
my  heart  is  purified  so  far  as  it  may  be  in  a  guilty  and  repent- 
ant woman  ;  there  is  no  thought  left  in  me  now  but  the  thought 
of  God." 

"  Let  us  leave  heaven's  justice  take  its  course,  my  lord," 
the  cur6  said,  in  a  softened  voice.  "  I  have  opposed  this  idea 
for  four  years.  It  has  caused  the  only  differences  of  opinion 
which  have  risen  between  my  penitent  and  me.  I  have  seen 
the  very  depths  of  this  soul ;  earth  has  no  hold  left  there. 
When  the  tears,  sighs,  and  contrition  of  fifteen  years  have 
buried  a  sin  in  which  two  beings  shared,  do  not  think  that 
there  is  the  least  luxurious  taint  in  the  long  and  dreadful 
remorse.  For  a  long  while  memory  has  ceased  to  mingle 
its  flames  in  the  most  ardent  repentance.  Yes,  many  tears 
have  quenched  so  great  a  fire.  I  will  answer,"  he  said, 
stretching  his  hand  out  above  Mme.  Graslin's  head  and  raising 
his  tear-filled  eyes,  "  I  will  answer  for  the  purity  of  this  arch- 
angel's soul.  I  used  once  to  see  in  this  desire  a  thought  of 
reparation  to  an  absent  family ;  it  seems  as  if  God  Himself 
has  sent  one  member  of  it  here,  through  one  of  those  acci- 
dents in  which  His  guidance  is  unmistakably  revealed." 

Veronique  took  the  curb's  trembling  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"You  have  often  been  harsh  to  me,  dear  pastor,"  she  said ; 
"  and  now,  in  this  moment,  I  discover  where  your  apostolic 
sweetness  lay  hidden.     You,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  arch- 


272  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

bishop,  "  you,  the  supreme  head  of  this  corner  of  God's  earthly 
kingdom,  be  my  stay  in  this  time  of  humiliation.  I  shall 
prostrate  myself  as  the  lowest  of  women  ;  you  will  raise  me,  a 
forgiven  soul,  equal,  it  may  be,  with  those  who  have  never 
gone  astray." 

The  archbishop  was  silent  for  a  while,  engaged,  no 
doubt,  in  weighing  the  considerations  visible  to  his  eagle's 
glance. 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  cure,  "deadly  blows  have  been  aimed 
at  religion.  Will  not  this  return  to  ancient  customs,  made 
necessary  by  the  greatness  both  of  the  sin  and  the  repentance, 
be  a  triumph  which  will  redound  to  us?  " 

*'  They  will  say  that  we  are  fanatics !  that  we  have  insisted 
on  this  cruel  scene !  "  and  the  archbishop  fell  once  more  to 
his  meditations. 

Just  at  that  moment  Horace  Bianchon  and  Roubaud  came 
in  without  knocking  at  the  door.  As  it  opened,  Veronique 
saw  her  mother,  her  son,  and  all  the  servants  kneeling  in 
prayer.  The  cur6s  of  the  two  neighboring  parishes  had  come 
to  assist  M.  Bonnet ;  perhaps  also  to  pay  their  respects  to  the 
great  archbishop,  in  whom  the  church  of  France  saw  a  car- 
dinal-designate, hoping  that  some  day  the  Sacred  College 
might  be  enlightened  by  the  advent  of  an  intellect  so  thor- 
oughly Gallican. 

Horace  Bianchon  was  about  to  start  for  Paris ;  he  came  to 
bid  farewell  to  the  dying  lady,  and  to  thank  her  for  her  mu- 
nificence. He  approached  the  bed  slowly,  guessing  from  the 
manner  of  the  two  priests  that  the  inward  wound  which  had 
caused  the  disease  of  the  body  was  now  under  consideration. 
He  took  V6ronique's  hand,  laid  it  on  the  bed,  and  felt  her 
pulse.  The  deepest  silence,  the  silence  of  the  fields  in  a 
summer-night,  added  solemnity  to  the  scene.  Lights  shone 
from  the  great  drawing-room,  beyond  the  folding  doors,  and 
fell  upon  the  little  company  of  kneeling  figures,  the  cures  only 
were  seated,  reading  their  breviaries.     About  the  crimson  bed 


V&RONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  273 

of  state  stood  the  archbishop,  in  his  violet  robes,  the  cure, 
and  the  two  men  of  science. 

"  She  is  troubled  even  in  death  !  "  said  Horace  Bianchon. 
Like  many  men  of  great  genius,  he  not  seldom  found  grand 
words  worthy  of  the  scenes  at  which  he  was  present. 

The  archbishop  rose,  as  if  goaded  by  some  inward  impulse. 
He  called  M.  Bonnet,  and  went  towards  the  door.  They 
crossed  the  chamber  and  the  drawing-room,  and  went  out  upon 
the  terrace,  where  they  walked  up  and  down  for  a  few  min- 
utes. As  they  came  in  after  a  consideration  of  this  point  of 
ecclesiastical  discipline,  Roubaud  went  to  meet  them. 

"  M.  Bianchon  sent  me  to  tell  you  to  be  quick;  Mme.  Gras- 
lin  is  dying  in  strange  agitation,  which  is  not  caused  by  the 
severe  physical  pain  which  she  is  suffering." 

The  archbishop  hurried  back,  and  in  reply  to  Mme.  Gras- 
lin's  anxious  eyes,  he  said,  "  You  shall  be  satisfied." 

Bianchon  (still  with  his  finger  on  the  dying  woman's  wrist) 
made  an  involuntary  start  of  surprise ;  he  gave  Roubaud  a 
quick  look,  and  then  glanced  at  the  priests. 

"  My  lord,  this  body  is  no  longer  our  province,"  he  said, 
"your  words  brought  life  in  the  place  of  death.  You  make 
a  miracle  credible." 

"  Madame  has  been  nothing  but  soul  this  long  time 
past,"  said  Roubaud,  and  Veronique  thanked  him  by  a 
glance. 

A  smile  crossed  her  face  as  she  lay  there,  and,  with  the 
smile  that  expressed  the  gladness  of  a  completed  expiation, 
the  innocent  look  of  the  girl  of  eighteen  returned  to  her. 
The  appalling  lines  traced  by  inward  tumult,  the  dark  color- 
ing, the  livid  patches,  all  the  details  that  but  lately  had  con- 
tributed a  certain  dreadful  beauty  to  her  face,  all  alterations 
of  all  kinds,  in  short,  had  vanished  ;  to  those  who  watched 
Veronique,  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  been  wearing  a  mask  and 
had  suddenly  dropped  it.  The  wonderful  transfiguration  by 
which  the  inward  life  and  nature  of  this  woman  were  made 
18 


274  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

visible  in  her  features  was  wrought  for  the  last  time.  Her 
whole  being  was  purified  and  illuminated,  her  face  might  have 
caught  a  gleam  from  the  flaming  swords  of  the  guardian  angels 
about  her.  She  looked  once  more  as  she  used  to  look  in 
Limoges  when  they  called  her  "  the  little  Virgin."  The  love 
of  God  manifestly  was  yet  stronger  in  her  than  the  guilty  love 
had  been  \  the  earthly  love  had  brought  out  all  the  forces  of 
life  in  her;  the  love  of  God  dispelled  every  trace  of  the  in- 
roads of  death.  A  smothered  cry  was  heard.  La  Sauviat 
appeared ;  she  sprang  to  the  bed.  "  So  I  see  my  child  again 
at  last !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Something  in  the  old  woman's  accent  as  she  uttered  the  two 
words,  "my  child,"  conjured  up  such  visions  of  early  child- 
hood and  its  innocence,  that  those  who  watched  by  this  heroic 
death-bed  turned  their  heads  away  to  hide  their  emotion. 
The  great  doctor  took  Mme.  Graslin's  hand,  kissed  it,  and 
then  went  his  way,  and  soon  the  sound  of  his  departing  car- 
riage sent  echoes  over  the  countryside,  spreading  the  tidings 
that  he  had  no  hope  of  saving  the  life  of  her  who  was  the  life 
of  the  country.  The  archbishop,  cure,  and  doctor,  and  all 
who  felt  tired,  went  to  take  a  little  rest.  Mme.  Graslin  her- 
self slept  for  some  hours.  When  she  awoke  the  dawn  was 
breaking ;  she  asked  them  to  open  the  windows,  she  would 
see  her  last  sunrise. 

At  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  archbishop,  in  pontifical 
vestments,  came  back  to  Mme.  Graslin's  room.  Both  he  and 
M.  Bonnet  reposed  such  confidence  in  her  that  they  made  no 
recommendations  as  to  the  limits  to  be  observed  in  her  confes- 
sion. V6ronique  saw  other  faces  of  other  clergy,  for  some  of 
the  curfe  from  neighboring  parishes  had  come.  The  splendid 
ornaments  which  Mme.  Graslin  had  presented  to  her  beloved 
parish  church  lent  splendor  to  the  ceremony.  Eight  children, 
choristers  in  their  red-and-white  surplices,  stood  in  a  double 
row  between  the  bed  and  the  door  of  the  great  drawing-room, 
each  of  them  holding  one  of  the  great  candlesticks  of  gilded 


VilRONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  275 

bronze  which  V^ronique  had  ordered  from  Paris.  A  white- 
haired  sacristan  on  either  side  of  the  dais  held  the  banner  of 
the  church  and  the  crucifix.  The  servants,  in  their  devotion, 
had  removed  the  wooden  altar  from  the  sacristy  and  erected 
it  near  the  drawing-room  door;  it  was  decked  and  ready  for 
the  archbishop  to  say  mass.  Mme.  Graslin  was  touched  by 
an  attention  which  the  church  pays  only  to  crowned  heads. 
The  great  folding-doors  that  gave  access  to  the  dining-room 
stood  wide  open,  so  that  she  could  see  the  hall  of  the  chateau 
filled  with  people ;  nearly  all  the  village  was  there. 

Her  friends  had  seen  to  everything,  none  but  the  people 
of  the  house  stood  in  the  drawing-room ;  and  before  them, 
grouped  about  the  door  of  her  room,  she  saw  her  intimate 
friends  and  those  whose  discretion  might  be  trusted.  M. 
Grossetgte,  M.  de  Granville,  Roubaud,  Gerard,  Clousier,  and 
Ruffin  stood  foremost  among  these.  All  of  them  meant  to 
stand  upright  when  the  time  came,  so  that  the  dying  woman's 
confession  should  not  travel  beyond  them.  Other  things 
favored  this  design,  for  the  sobs  of  those  about  her  drowned 
her  voice. 

Two  of  these  stood  out  dreadfully  conspicuous  among  the 
rest.  The  first  was  Denise  Tascheron.  In  her  foreign  dress, 
made  with  Qiiakerly  simplicity,  she  was  unrecognizable  to  any 
of  the  villagers  who  might  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  her.  Not 
so  for  the  public  prosecutor ;  she  was  a  figure  that  he  was  not 
likely  to  forget,  and  with  her  reappearance  a  dreadful  light 
began  to  dawn  on  him.  Now  he  had  a  glimpse  of  the  truth, 
a  suspicion  of  the  part  which  he  had  played  in  Mme.  Graslin's 
life,  and  then  the  whole  truth  flashed  upon  him.  Less  over- 
awed than  the  rest  by  the  religious  influence,  the  child  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  the  man  of  law  felt  a  cruel  sensation  of 
dismay ;  the  whole  drama  of  V^ronique's  inner  life  in  the 
Hotel  Graslin  during  Tascheron's  trial  opened  out  before  him. 
The  whole  of  that  tragic  epoch  reconstructed  itself  in  his 
memory,  lighted  up  by  La  Sauviat's  eyes,  which  gleamed  with 


276  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

hate  of  him  not  ten  paces  away ;  those  eyes  seemed  to  direct 
a  double  stream  of  molten  lead  upon  him.  The  old  woman 
had  forgiven  him  nothing.  The  impersonation  of  man's  jus- 
tice felt  shudders  run  through  his  frame.  He  stood  there 
heart-stricken  and  pallid,  not  daring  to  turn  his  eyes  to  the 
bed  where  the  woman  he  had  loved  was  lying,  lived  beneath 
the  shadow  of  death's  hand,  drawing  strength  from  the  very 
magnitude  of  her  offense  to  quell  her  agony.  Vertigo  seized 
on  him  as  he  saw  Veronique's  shrunken  profile,  a  white  out- 
line in  sharp  relief  against  the  crimson  damask. 

The  mass  began  at  eleven  o'clock.  When  the  cure  of  Vizay 
had  read  the  epistle,  the  archbishop  divested  himself  of  his 
dalmatic,  and  took  up  his  station  in  the  doorway — 

"  Christians  here  assembled  to  witness  the  administration 
of  extreme  unction  to  the  mistress  of  this  house,  you  who  are 
uniting  your  prayers  to  those  of  the  church  to  make  interces- 
sion with  God  for  the  salvation  of  her  soul,  learn  that  she 
thinks  herself  unworthy  to  receive  the  holy  viaticum  until  she 
has  made,  for  the  edification  of  others,  a  public  confession 
of  her  greatest  sin.  We  withstood  her  pious  desire,  although 
this  act  of  contrition  was  long  in  use  in  the  church  in  the 
earliest  Christian  times ;  but  as  the  afflicted  woman  tells  us 
that  the  confession  touches  on  the  rehabilitation  of  an  un- 
happy child  of  this  parish,  we  leave  her  free  to  follow  the 
inspirations  of  repentance. " 

After  these  words,  spoken  with  the  benign  dignity  of  a 
shepherd  of  souls,  the  archbishop  turned  and  gave  place  to 
V6ronique.  The  dying  woman  was  seen,  supported  by  her 
^mother  and  the  cur6,  two  great  and  venerable  symbols  :  did 
•she  not  owe  her  double  existence  to  the  earthly  mother  who 
had  borne  her,  and  to  the  church,  the  mother  of  her  soul  ? 
Kneeling  on  a  cushion,  she  clasped  her  hands  and  meditated 
for  a  moment  to  gather  up  and  concentrate  the  strength  to 
speak  from  some  source  derived  from  heaven.  There  was 
something  unspeakably  awful  in  that  silent  pause.     No  one 


V^RONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE   TOMB.  277 

dared  to  look  at  his  neighbor.  All  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
ground.  Yet  when  Veronique  looked  up,  she  met  the  public 
prosecutor's  glance,  and  the  expression  of  that  white  face  sent 
the  color  to  her  own. 

**I  should  not  have  died  in  peace,"  Vdronique  began,  in  a 
voice  unlike  her  natural  tone,  "  if  I  had  left  behind  the  false 
impression  which  each  one  of  you  who  hears  me  speak  has 
possibly  formed  of  me.  In  me  you  see  a  great  sinner,  who 
beseeches  your  prayers,  and  seeks  to  merit  pardon  by  the 
public  confession  of  her  sin.  So  deeply  has  she  sinned,  so 
fatal  were  the  consequences  of  her  guilt,  that  it  may  be  that 
no  repentance  will  redeem  it.  And  yet  the  greater  my 
humiliation  on  earth,  the  less,  doubtless,  have  I  to  dread  from 
God's  anger  in  the  heavenly  kingdom  whither  I  fain  would  go. 

"It  is  nearly  twenty  years  since  my  father,  who  had  such 
great  belief  in  me,  recommended  a  son  of  this  parish  to  my 
care ;  he  had  seen  in  him  a  wish  to  live  rightly,  aptitude,  and 
an  excellent  disposition.  This  young  man  was  the  unhappy 
Jean-Frangois  Tascheron,  who  thenceforward  attached  himself 
to  me  as  his  benefactress.  How  was  it  that  my  affection  for 
him  became  a  guilty  one  ?  That  explanation  need  not,  I 
think,  be  required  of  me.  Yet,  perhaps,  it  might  be  thought 
that  the  purest  possible  motives  were  imperceptibly  transformed 
by  unheard-of  self-sacrifice,  by  human  frailty,  by  a  host  of 
causes  which  might  seem  to  be  extenuations  of  my  guilt. 
But  am  I  the  less  guilty  because  our  noblest  affections  were  my 
accomplices  ?  I  would  rather  admit,  in  spite  of  the  barriers 
raised  by  the  delicacy  natural  to  our  sex  between  me  and  the 
young  man  whom  my  father  intrusted  to  me,  that  I,  who  by 
my  education  and  social  position  might  regard  myself  as  his 
protege's  superior,  listened,  in  an  evil  hour,  to  the  voice  of 
the  tempter.  I  soon  found  that  my  maternal  position  brought 
me  into  contact  with  him  so  close  that  I  could  not  but  be 
sensible  of  his  mute  and  delicate  admiration.  He  was  the 
first  and  only  creature  to  appreciate  me  at  my  just  value. 


278  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

Perhaps,  too,  I  myself  was  led  astray  by  unworthy  considera- 
tions. I  thought  that  I  could  trust  to  the  discretion  of  a 
young  man  who  owed  everything  to  me,  whom  chance  had 
placed  so  far  below  me,  albeit  by  birth  we  were  equals.  In 
fact,  I  found  a  cloak  to  screen  my  conduct  in  my  name  for 
charity  and  good  deeds,  Alas  !  (and  this  is  one  of  my  worst 
sins)  I  hid  my  passion  in  the  shadow  of  the  altar.  1  made 
everything  conduce  to  the  miserable  triumph  of  a  mad  passion, 
the  most  irreproachable  actions,  my  love  for  my  mother,  acts 
of  a  devotion  that  was  very  real  and  sincere  and  through  so 
many  errors — all  these  things  were  so  many  links  in  a  chain 
that  bound  me.  My  poor  mother,  whom  I  love  so  much,  who 
hears  me  even  now,  was  unwittingly  and  for  a  long  while  my 
accomplice.  When  her  eyes  were  opened,  I  was  too  deeply 
committed  to  my  dangerous  way,  and  she  found  strength  to 
keep  my  secret  in  the  depths  of  her  mother  heart.  Silence 
in  her  has  thus  become  the  loftiest  of  virtues.  Love  for  her 
daughter  overcame  the  love  of  God.  Ah  !  now  I  solemnly 
relieve  her  of  the  load  of  secrecy  which  she  has  carried.  She 
shall  end  her  days  with  no  lie  in  her  eyes  and  brow.  May 
her  motherhood  absolve  her,  may  her  noble  and  sacred  old 
age,  crowned  with  virtues,  shine  forth  in  all  its  radiance,  now 
that  the  link  which  bound  her  indirectly  to  touch  such  infamy 
is  severed " 

Here  V^ronique's  sobs  interrupted  her  words ;  Aline  made 
her  inhale  salts. 

"  Only  one  other  has  hitherto  been  in  this  secret,  the  faith- 
ful servant  who  does  me  this  last  service  ;  she  has,  at  least, 
feigned  not  to  know  what  she  must  have  known,  but  she  has 
been  in  the  secret  of  the  austerities  by  which  I  have  broken 
this  weak  flesh.  So  I  ask  pardon  of  the  world  for  having 
lived  a  lie,  drawn  into  that  lie  by  the  remorseless  logic  of  the 
world. 

"  Jean-Francois  Tascheron  is  not  as  guilty  as  men  may  have 
thought  him.     Oh,  all  you  who  hear  me !    I  beg  of  you  to 


V^RONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  279 

remember  how  young  he  was,  and  that  his  frenzy  was  caused 
at  least  as  much  by  the  remorse  which  seized  on  me,  as  by  the 
spell  of  an  involuntary  attraction.  And  more,  far  more,  do 
not  forget  that  it  was  a  sense  of  honor,  if  a  mistaken  sense  of 
honor,  which  caused  the  greatest  disaster  of  all.  Neither  of 
us  could  endure  that  life  of  continual  deceits.  He  turned 
from  them  to  my  own  greatness,  and,  unhappy  that  he  was, 
sought  to  make  our  fatal  love  as  little  of  a  humiliation  as 
might  be  to  me.  So  I  was  the  cause  of  his  crime.  Driven 
by  necessity,  the  unhappy  man,  hitherto  only  guilty  of  too 
great  a  love  for  his  idol,  chose  of  all  evil  actions  the  one  most 
irreparable.  I  knew  nothing  of  it  until  the  very  moment 
when  the  deed  was  done.  Even  as  it  was  being  carried  out, 
God  overturned  the  whole  fabric  of  crooked  designs.  I 
heard  cries  that  ring  even  yet  in  my  ears,  and  went  into  the 
house  again.  I  knew  that  it  was  a  struggle  for  life  and  death, 
and  that  I,  the  object  of  this  mad  endeavor,  was  powerless  to 
interfere.  For  Tascheron  was  mad;  I  bear  witness  that  he 
was  mad  ! ' ' 

Here  Veronique  looked  at  the  public  prosecutor,  and  a 
deep  audible  sigh  came  from  Denise. 

"  He  lost  his  head  when  he  saw  his  happiness  (so  he  be- 
lieved it  to  be)  destroyed  by  unforeseen  circumstances.  Love 
led  him  astray,  then  fate  dragged  him  from  a  misdemeanor  to 
a  crime,  and  from  a  crime  to  a  double  murder.  At  any  rate, 
when  he  left  my  mother's  house  he  was  an  innocent  man ; 
when  he  returned,  he  was  a  murderer.  I,  and  I  only  in  the 
world,  knew  that  the  crime  was  not  premeditated,  nor  accom- 
panied by  the  aggravating  circumstances  which  brought  the 
sentence  of  death  on  him.  A  hundred  times  I  determined  to 
give  myself  up  to  save  him,  and  a  hundred  times  a  terrible 
but  necessary  heroism  outweighed  all  other  considerations, 
and  the  words  died  on  my  lips.  Surely  my  presence  a  few 
steps  away  must  have  contributed  to  give  him  the  hateful, 
base,    cowardly   courage   of  a  murderer.     If    he  had   been 


280  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

alone,  he  would  have  fled It  was  I  who  had  formed  his 

nature,  who  had  given  him  loftier  thoughts  and  a  greater 
heart ;  I  knew  him  ;  he  was  incapable  of  anything  cowardly 
or  base.  Do  justice  to  the  innocent  hand,  do  justice  to  him  ! 
God  in  His  mercy  lets  him  sleep  in  the  grave  that  you,  guess- 
ing doubtless,  the  real  truth,  have  watered  with  your  tears ! 
Punish  and  curse  the  guilty  thing  here  before  you  !  When 
once  the  deed  was  done,  I  was  horror-struck ;  I  did  all  that 
I  could  to  hide  it.  My  father  had  left  a  charge  to  me,  a 
childless  woman ;  I  was  to  bring  one  child  of  God's  family 

to  God,  and  I  brought  him  to  the  scaffold Oh,  heap  all 

your  reproaches  upon  me  !     The  hour  has  come  !  " 

Her  eyes  glittered  with  fierce  pride  as  she  spoke.  The 
archbishop,  standing  behind  her,  with  his  pastoral  cross  held 
out  above  her  head,  no  longer  maintained  his  impassive 
attitude  \  he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  right  hand,  A  smoth- 
ered sound  like  a  dying  groan  broke  the  silence,  and  two 
men — Gerard  and  Roubaud — caught  Denise  Tascheron  in 
their  arms.  She  had  swooned  away.  The  fire  died  down  in 
Veronique's  eyes;  she  looked  troubled,  but  the  martyr's 
serenity  soon  returned  to  her  face. 

"  I  deserve  no  praise,  no  blessings,  for  my  conduct  here,  as 
you  know  now,"  she  said.  "In  the  sight  of  heaven  I  have 
led  a  life  full  of  sharp  penance,  hidden  from  all  other  eyes,  and 
heaven  will  value  it  at  its  just  worth.  My  outward  life  has 
been  a  vast  reparation  of  the  evil  that  I  have  wrought ;  I  have 
engraved  my  repentance  in  characters  ineffaceable  upon  this 
wide  land,  a  record  that  will  last  for  ever.  It  is  written 
everywhere  in  the  fields  grown  green,  in  the  growing  town- 
ship, in  the  mountain  streams  turned  from  their  courses  into 
the  plain,  once  wild  and  barren,  now  fertile  and  productive. 
Not  a  tree  shall  be  felled  here  for  a  century  but  the  peasants 
will  tell  the  tale  of  the  remorse  to  which  they  owe  its  shade. 
In  these  ways  the  repentant  spirit  which  should  have  inspired 
a  long  and  useful  life  will  still  make  its  influence  felt  among 


V&RONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE    TOMB.  281 

you  for  a  long  time  to  come.  All  that  you  should  have  owed 
to  his  talents  and  a  fortune  honorably  acquired  has  been  done 
for  you  by  the  executrix  of  his  repentance,  by  her  who  caused 
his  crime.  All  the  wrong  done  socially  has  been  repaired  ;  I 
have  taken  upon  myself  the  work  of  a  life  cut  short  in  its 
flower,  the  life  intrusted  to  my  guidance,  the  life  for  which  I 
must  shortly  give  an  account " 

Here  once  more  the  burning  eyes  were  quenched  in  tears. 
She  paused. 

"There  is  one  among  those  present,"  she  continued, 
**  whom  I  have  hated  with  a  hate  which  I  thought  must  be 
eternal,  simply  because  he  did  no  more  than  his  duty.  He 
was  the  first  instrument  of  my  punishment.  I  was  too  close 
to  the  deed,  my  feet  were  dipped  too  deep  in  blood,  I  was 
bound  to  hate  justice.  I  knew  that  there  was  a  trace  of  evil 
passion  in  my  heart,  so  long  as  that  spark  of  anger  should 
trouble  it;  I  have  had  nothing  to  forgive,  I  have  simply 
purged  the  corner  where  the  evil  one  lurked.  Whatever  the 
victory  cost,  it  is  complete." 

The  public  prosecutor  turned  a  tear-stained  face  to  V6ron- 
ique.  It  was  as  if  man's  justice  was  remorseful  in  him.  Ver- 
onique,  turning  her  face  away  to  continue  her  story,  met  the 
eyes  of  an  old  friend ;  GrossetSte,  bathed  in  tears,  stretched 
out  his  hands  entreatingly  towards  her.  "It  is  enough  !  "  he 
seemed  to  say.  The  heroic  woman  heard  such  a  chorus  of 
sobs  about  her,  received  so  much  sympathy,  that  she  broke 
down  \  the  balm  of  the  general  forgiveness  was  too  much, 
weakness  overcame  her.  Seeing  that  the  sources  of  her 
daughter's  strength  were  exhausted,  the  old  mother  seemed  to 
find  in  herself  the  vigor  of  a  young  woman ;  she  held  out  her 
arms  to  carry  Vdronique. 

"Christians,"  said  the  archbishop,  "you  have  heard  the 
penitent's  confession  ;  it  confirms  the  decree  of  man's  justice ; 
it  may  lay  all  scruples  and  anxiety  on  that  score  to  rest.  In 
this  confession  you  should  find  new  reasons  for  uniting  your 


282  THE  COUNTRY  PARSON. 

prayers  to  those  of  the  church,  which  offers  to  God  the  holy 
sacrifice  of  the  mass  to  implore  His  mercy  for  the  sinner  after 
so  grand  a  repentance." 

The  ofl&ce  was  finished.  Veronique  followed  all  that  was 
said  with  an  expression  of  such  inward  peace  that  she  no 
longer  seemed  to  be  the  same  woman.  Her  face  wore  a  look 
of  frank  innocence,  such  as  it  might  have  worn  in  the  days 
when,  a  pure  and  ingenuous  girl,  she  dwelt  under  her  father's 
roof.  Her  brows  grew  white  in  the  dawn  of  eternity,  her  face 
glowed  golden  in  the  light  of  heaven.  Doubtless  she  caught 
something  of  its  mystic  harmonies ;  and  in  her  longing  to  be 
made  one  with  God  on  earth  for  the  last  time,  she  exerted  all 
her  powers  of  vitality  to  live.  M.  Bonnet  came  to  the  bed- 
side and  gave  her  absolution;  the  archbishop  anointed  her 
with  the  holy  oil,  with  a  fatherly  tenderness  that  revealed  to 
those  who  stood  about  how  dear  he  held  this  sheep  that  had 
been  lost  and  was  found.  With  that  holy  anointing  the  eyes 
that  had  wrought  such  mischief  on  earth  were  closed  to  the 
things  of  earth,  the  seal  of  the  church  was  set  on  those  two 
eloquent  lips,  and  the  ears  that  had  listened  to  the  inspiration 
of  evil  were  closed  for  ever.  All  the  senses,  mortified  by 
penitence,  were  thus  sanctified  ;  the  spirit  of  evil  could  have 
no  power  over  this  soul. 

Never  had  all  the  grandeur  and  deep  meaning  of  a  sacra- 
ment been  apprehended  more  thoroughly  than  by  those  who 
saw  the  -church's  care  thus  justified  by  the  dying  woman's 
confession.  After  that  preparation,  Veronique  received  the 
body  of  Christ  with  a  look  of  hope  and  joy  that  melted  the 
icy  barrier  of  unbelief  at  which  the  cur6  had  so  often  knocked 
in  vain.  Roubaud,  confounded,  became  a  Catholic  from  that 
moment. 

Awful  as  the  scene  was,  it  was  no  less  touching ;  and  in  its 
solemnity,  as  of  the  culminating-point  of  a  drama,  it  might 
have  given  some  painter  the  subject  of  a  masterpiece.  When 
the  mournful  episode  was  over,  and  the  words  of  the  Gospel 


V&RONIQUE  LAID  IN  THE   TOMB.  283 

of  St.  John  fell  on  the  ears  of  the  dying  woman,  she  beck- 
oned to  her  mother  to  bring  Francis  back  again.  (The  tutor 
had  taken  the  boy  out  of  the  room.)  When  Francis  knelt  on 
the  step  by  the  bedside,  the  mother  whose  sins  had  been  for- 
given felt  free  to  lay  her  hands  in  blessing  on  his  head,  and  so 
she  drew  her  last  breath,  La  Sauviat  standing  at  the  post  she 
had  filled  for  twenty  years,  faithful  to  the  end.  It  was  she,  a 
heroine  after  her  manner,  who  closed  the  eyes  of  the  daughter 
who  had  suffered  so  much,  and  laid  a  kiss  on  them. 

Then  all  the  priests  and  assistants  came  round  the  bed,  and 
intoned  the  dread  chant  De  profundis  by  the  light  of  the 
flaming  torches ;  and  from  those  sounds  the  people  of  the 
whole  countryside  kneeling  without,  together  with  the  friends 
and  all  the  servants  praying  in  the  hall,  knew  that  the  mother 
of  the  canton  had  passed  away.  Groans  and  sobs  mingled 
with  the  chanting.  The  noble  woman's  confession  had  not 
passed  beyond  the  threshold  of  the  drawing-room ;  it  had 
reached  none  but  friendly  ears.  When  the  peasants  came 
from  Montegnac,  and  all  the  district  round  about  came  in,  each 
with  a  green  spray,  to  bid  their  benefactress  2,  supreme  farewell 
mingled  with  tears  and  prayers,  they  saw  a  representative  of 
man's  justice,  bowed  down  with  anguish,  holding  the  cold 
hand  of  the  woman  to  whom  all  unwittingly  he  had  meted  out 
such  a  cruel  but  just  punishment. 

Two  days  later  and  the  public  prosecutor,  with  Grosset^te, 
the  archbishop,  and  the  mayor,  bore  the  pall  when  Mme. 
Graslin  was  carried  to  her  last  resting-place.  Amid  deep 
silence  they  laid  her  in  the  grave ;  no  one  uttered  a  word,  for 
no  one  had  the  heart  to  speak,  and  all  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"She  is  a  saint!"  Everywhere  the  words  were  repeated 
along  the  roads  which  she  had  made,  in  the  canton  which 
owed  its  prosperity  to  her.  It  was  as  if  the  words  were  sown 
abroad  across  her  fields  to  quicken  the  life  in  them.  It  struck 
nobody  as  a  strange  thing  that  Mme.  Graslin  should  be  buried 
beside  Jean-Frangois  Tascheron.     She  had  not  asked  this; 


284  THE   COUNTRY  PARSON. 

but  a  trace  of  pitying  tenderness  in  the  old  mother  proinpted 
her  to  bid  the  sacristan  put  those  together  whom  earth  had 
separated  by  a  violent  death,  whom  one  repentance  should 
unite  in  purgatory. 

Mme.  Graslin's  will  fulfilled  all  expectations.  She  founded 
scholarships  in  the  school  at  Limoges,  and  beds  in  the  hospital, 
intended  for  the  working  classes  only.  A  considerable  sum 
(three  hundred  thousand  francs  in  a  period  of  six  years)  was 
left  to  purchase  that  part  of  the  village  called  "  Tascheron's," 
and  for  building  an  almshouse  there.  It  was  to  serve  as  an 
asylum  for  the  sick  and  aged  poor  of  the  district,  a  lying-in 
hospital  for  destitute  women,  and  a  home  for  foundling  chil- 
dren, and  was  to  be  known  by  the  name  of  Tascheron's  Alms- 
house. Vdronique  directed  that  it  was  to  be  placed  in  the 
charge  of  the  Franciscan  Sisters,  and  fixed  the  salary  of  the 
head  physician  and  house  surgeon  at  four  thousand  francs. 
Mme.  Graslin  begged  Roubaud  to  be  the  first  head  physician, 
and  to  superintend  the  execution  of  the  sanitary  arrangements 
and  plans  to  be  made  by  the  architect,  M.  Gerard.  She  also 
endowed  the  commune  of  Montegnac  with  sufficient  land  to 
pay  the  taxes.  A  certain  fund  was  put  in  the  hands  of  the 
church  to  be  used  as  determined  in  some  exceptional  cases ; 
for  the  church  was  to  be  the  guardian  of  the  young  ;  and  if  any 
of  the  children  in  Montegnac  should  show  a  special  aptitude 
for  art  or  science  or  industrial  pursuits,  the  far-sighted  benevo- 
lence of  the  testatrix  provided  thus  for  their  encouragement. 

The  tidings  of  her  death  were  received  as  the  news  of  a 
calamity  to  the  whole  country,  and  no  word  that  reflected  on 
her  memory  went  with  it. 

G6rard,  appointed  Francis  Graslin's  guardian,  was  required 
by  the  terms  of  the  will  to  live  at  the  chdteau,  and  thither  he 
went ;  but  not  until  three  months  after  Veronique's  death  did 
he  marry  Denise  Tascheron,  in  whom  Francis  found,  as  it 
were,  a  second  mother. 


ALBERT   SAVARON 

{de  Savarus). 
To  Madame  Entile  Girardin. 

One  of  the  few  drawing-rooms  where,  under  the  Restora- 
tion, the  archbishop  of  Besangon  was  sometimes  to  be  seen, 
was  that  of  the  Baronne  de  Watteville,  to  whom  he  was  par- 
ticularly attached  on  account  of  her  religious  sentiments. 

A  word  as  to  this  lady,  the  most  important  lady  of  Besan- 
?on. 

Monsieur  de  Watteville,  a  descendant  of  the  famous  Watte- 
ville, the  most  successful  and  illustrious  of  murderers  and 
renegades — his  extraordinary  adventures  are  too  much  a  part 
of  history  to  be  related  here — this  nineteenth-century  Mon- 
sieur de  Watteville  was  as  gentle  and  peaceable  as  his  ancestor 
of  the  Grand  Steele  had  been  passionate  and  turbulent.  After 
living  in  the  Comte*  like  a  wood-louse  in  the  crack  of  a  wainscot, 
he  had  married  the  heiress  of  the  celebrated  house  of  Rupt. 
Mademoiselle  de  Rupt  brought  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year 
in  the  funds  to  add  to  the  ten  thousand  francs  a  year  in  real 
estate  of  the  Baron  de  Watteville.  The  Swiss  gentleman's 
coat-of-arms  (the  Wattevilles  are  Swiss)  was  then  borne  as  an 
escutcheon  of  pretense  on  the  old  shield  of  the  Rupts.  The 
marriage,  arranged  in  1802,  was  solemnized  in  1815  after  the 
second  Restoration.  Within  three  years  of  the  birth  of  a 
daughter  all  Madame  de  Watteville's  grandparents  were 
dead  and  their  estates  wound  up.  Monsieur  de  Watteville's 
house  was  then  sold,  and  they  settled  in  the  Rue  de  la  Prefec- 
ture in  the  fine  old  mansion  of  the  Rupts,  with  an  immense 
garden  stretching  to  the  Rue  du  Perron.     Madame  de  Watte- 

*  La  Franche  Comtfi. 

(286) 


286  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

ville,  devout  as  a  girl,  became  even  more  so  after  her  marriage. 
She  was  one  of  the  queens  of  the  saintly  brotherhood  which 
gives  the  upper  circles  of  Besan^on  a  solemn  air  and  prudish 
manners  in  harmony  with  the  character  of  the  town. 

Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Watteville,  a  dry,  lean  man,  devoid 
of  intelligence,  looked  worn  out  without  any  one  knowing 
whereby,  for  he  enjoyed  the  profoundest  ignorance ;  but  as  his 
wife  was  a  red-haired  woman,  and  of  a  stern  nature  that 
became  proverbial  (we  still  say  **  as  sharp  as  Madame  de  Watte- 
ville") some  wits  of  the  legal  profession  declared  that  he  had 
been  worn  against  that  rock — Rupt  is  obviously  derived  from 
rupes.  Scientific  students  of  social  phenomena  will  not  fail  to 
have  observed  that  Rosalie  was  the  only  offspring  of  the  union 
between  the  Wattevilles  and  the  Rupts. 

Monsieur  de  Watteville  spent  his  existence  in  a  handsome 
workshop  with  a  lathe ;  he  was  a  turner  !  As  subsidiary  to  this 
pursuit,  he  took  up  a  fancy  for  making  collections.  Philo- 
sophical doctors,  devoted  to  the  study  of  madness,  regard 
this  tendency  toward  collecting  as  a  first  degree  of  mental 
aberration  when  it  is  set  on  small  things.  The  Baron  de 
Watteville  treasured  shells  and  geological  fragments  of  the 
neighborhood  of  Besan^on.  Some  contradictory  folk,  espe- 
cially women,  would  say  of  Monsieur  de  Watteville,  "  He  has 
a  noble  soul !  He  perceived  from  the  first  days  of  his  married 
life  that  he  would  never  be  his  wife's  master,  so  he  threw 
himself  into  a  mechanical  occupation  and  good  living." 

The  house  of  the  Rupts  was  not  devoid  of  a  certain  magnifi- 
cence worthy  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  bore  traces  of  the  nobility 
of  the  two  families  who  had  mingled  in  1815.  The  chandeliers 
of  glass  cut  in  the  shape  of  leaves,  the  brocades,  the  damask, 
the  carpets,  the  gilt  furniture,  were  all  in  harmony  with  the 
old  liveries  and  the  old  servants.  Though  served  in  blackened 
family  plate,  round  a  looking-glass  tray  furnished  with  Dresden 
china,  the  food  was  exquisite.  The  wines  selected  by  Mon- 
sieur de  Watteville^  who,  to  occupy  his  time  and  vary  his 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  287 

employments,  was  his  own  butler,  enjoyed  a  sort  of  fame 
throughout  the  department.  Madame  de  Watteville's  fortune 
was  a  fine  one ;  while  her  husband's,  which  consisted  only  of 
the  estate  of  Rouxey,  worth  about  ten  thousand  francs  a  year, 
was  not  increased  by  inheritance.  It  is  needless  to  add  that  in 
consequence  of  Madame  de  Watteville's  close  intimacy  with 
the  archbishop,  the  three  or  four  clever  or  remarkable  abbes 
of  the  diocese  who  were  not  averse  to  good  feeding  were  very 
much  at  home  at  her  house. 

At  a  ceremonial  dinner  given  in  honor  of  I  know  not 
whose  wedding,  at  the  beginning  of  September,  1834,  when 
the  women  were  standing  in  a  circle  round  the  drawing-room 
fire,  and  the  men  in  groups  by  the  windows,  every  one 
exclaimed  with  pleasure  at  the  entrance  of  Monsieur  I'Abb^ 
de  Grancey,  who  was  announced. 

"Well,  and  the  lawsuit?"  they  all  cried. 

"Won  !  "  replied  the  vicar-general.  "  The  verdict  of  the 
court,  from  which  we  had  no  hope,  you  know  why " 

This  was  an  allusion  to  the  members  of  the  First  Court  of 
Appeal  of  1830  ;  the  Legitimists  had  almost  all  withdrawn. 

"  The  verdict  is  in  our  favor  on  every  point,  and  reverses 
the  decision  of  the  lower  court." 

"Everybody  thought  you  were  done  for." 

"  And  we  should  have  been,  but  for  me.  I  told  our  advo- 
cate to  be  off  to  Paris,  and  at  the  crucial  moment  I  was  able 
to   secure   a   new   pleader,  to   whom  we  owe  our  victory,  a 

wonderful  man " 

;;   "At  Besangon?  "  said  Monsieur  de  Watteville,  guilelessly. 

"At  Besangon,"  replied  the  Abbe  de  Grancey. 

"Oh  yes,  Savaron,"  said  a  handsome  young  man  sitting 
near  the  Baroness,  and  named  de  Soulas. 

"  He  spent  five  or  six  nights  over  it ;  he  devoured  docu- 
ments and  briefs ;  he  had  seven  or  eight  interviews  of  several 
hours  with  me,"  continued  Monsieur  de  Grancey,  who  had 
just  reappeared  at  the  Hotel  de  Rupt  for  the  first  time  in 


288  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

three  weeks.  "  In  short,  Monsieur  Savaron  has  just  com- 
pletely beaten  the  celebrated  lawyer  whom  our  adversaries 
had  sent  for  from  Paris.  This  young  man  is  wonderful,  the 
bigwigs  say.  Thus  the  chapter  is  twice  victorious ;  it  has 
triumphed  in  law  and  also  in  politics,  since  it  has  vanquished 
Liberalism  in  the  person  of  the  counsel  of  our  municipality. 
*  Our  adversaries,'  so  our  advocate  said,  'must  not  expect  to 
find  readiness  on  all  sides  to  ruin  the  archbishoprics.'  The 
president  was  obliged  to  enforce  silence.  All  the  townsfolk  of 
Besangon  applauded.  Thus  the  possession  of  the  buildings  of 
the  old  convent  remains  with  the  Chapter  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Besan^on.  Monsieur  Savaron,  however,  invited  his  Parisian 
opponent  to  dine  with  him  as  they  came  out  of  court.  He 
accepted,  saying,  *  Honor  to  every  conqueror,'  and  com- 
plimented him  on  his  success  without  bitterness." 

"And  where  did  you  unearth  this  lawyer?"  said  Madame 
de  Watteville.     "I  never  heard  his  name  before." 

"Why,  you  can  see  his  windows  from  here,"  replied  the 
vicar-general.  "  Monsieur  Savaron  lives  in  the  Rue  du  Per- 
ron ;  the  garden  of  his  house  joins  on  to  yours." 

"  But  he  is  not  a  native  of  the  Comt6,"  said  Monsieur  de 
Watteville. 

"So  little  is  he  a  native  of  any  place,  that  no  one  knows 
where  he  comes  from,"  said  Madame  de  Chavoncourt. 

"But  who  is  he?"  asked  Madame  de  Watteville,  taking 
the  abb6's  arm  to  go  into  the  dining-room.  "  If  he  is  a  stran- 
ger, by  what  chance  has  he  settled  at  Besangon  ?  It  is  a  strange 
fancy  for  a  barrister." 

"  Very  strange  !  "  echoed  Amedee  de  Soulas,  whose  biog- 
raphy is  here  necessary  to  the  understanding  of  this  tale. 

In  all  ages  France  and  England  have  carried  on  an  ex- 
change of  trifles,  which  is  all  the  more  constant  because  it 
evades  the  tyranny  of  the  custom-house.  The  fashion  that  is 
called  English  in  Paris  is  called  French  in  London,  and  this 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  289 

is  reciprocal.  The  hostility  of  the  two  nations  is  suspended 
on  two  points — the  uses  of  words  and  the  fashion  of  dress. 
"  God  save  the  King,"  the  national  air  of  England,  is  a  tune 
written  by  LuUi  for  the  chorus  of  "  Esther  "  or  of  "Athalie." 
Hoops,  introduced  at  Paris  by  an  Englishwoman,  were  in- 
vented in  London,  it  is  known  why,  by  a  Frenchwoman,  the 
notorious  Duchess  of  Portsmouth.  Tliey  were  at  first  so 
jeered  at  that  the  first  Englishwoman  who  appeared  in  them 
at  the  Tuileries  narrowly  escaped  being  crushed  by  the  crowd ; 
but  they  were  adopted.  This  fashion  tjrrannized  over  the 
ladies  of  Europe  for  half  a  century.  At  the  peace  of  1815, 
for  a  year,  the  long  waists  of  the  English  were  a  standing  jest; 
all  Paris  went  to  see  Pothier  and  Brunet  in  Les  Anglaises pour 
rire ;  but  in  1816  and  181 7  the  belt  of  the  Frenchwoman, 
which  in  181 4  cut  her  across  the  bosom,  gradually  descended 
till  it  reached  the  hips. 

Within  ten  years  England,  has  made  two  little  gifts  to  our 
language.  The  Incroyable,  the  Merveilleux^  the  Elegant^  the 
three  successors  of  \\\e  petit-maUre  of  discreditable  etjrmology, 
have  made  way  for  the  "dandy"  and  the  "lion."  The 
Hon  is  not  the  parent  of  the  lionne.  The  lionne  is  due  to  the 
famous  song  by  Alfred  de  Musset — 

**Avex  vous  vu  dans  Barcelom 
C'est  ma  maitresse  et  ma  Honnt^* 

There  has  been  a  fusion — or,  if  you  prefer  it,  a  confiision — 
of  the  two  words  and  the  leading  ideas.  When  an  absurdity 
can  amuse  Paris,  which  devours  as  many  masterpieces  as  ab- 
surdities, the  provinces  can  hardly  be  deprived  of  them.  So, 
as  soon  as  the  lion  paraded  Paris  with  his  mane,  his  beard 
and  mustaches,  his  waistcoats  and  his  eyeglass,  maintained  in 
its  place,  without  the  help  of  his  hands,  by  the  contraction 
of  his  cheek  and  eye-socket,  the  chief  towns  of  some  depart- 
ments had  their  sub-lions,  who  protested  by  the  smartness  of 
19 


290  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

their  trousers-straps  against  the  untidiness  of  their  fellow- 
townsmen. 

Thus,  in  1834,  Besangon  could  boast  of  a  lion,  in  the  per- 
son of  Monsieur  Amed6e-Sylvain  de  Soulas,  spelt  Souleyas  at 
the  time  of  the  Spanish  occupation.  Am6dee  de  Soulas  is, 
perhaps,  the  only  man  in  Besan^on  descended  from  a  Spanish 
family.  Spain  sent  men  to  manage  her  business  in  the  Comte, 
but  very  few  Spaniards  settled  there.  The  Soulas  remained 
in  consequence  of  their  connection  with  Cardinal  Gran- 
velle. 

Young  Monsieur  de  Soulas  was  always  talking  of  leaving  Be- 
san9on,  a  dull  town,  church-going,  and  not  literary,  a  military 
centre  and  garrison  town,  of  which  the  manners  and  customs 
and  physiognomy  are  worth  describing.  This  opinion  allowed 
of  his  lodging,  like  a  man  uncertain  of  the  future,  in  three 
very  scantily  furnished  rooms  at  the  end  of  the  Rue  Neuve, 
just  where  it  opens  into  the  Rue  de  la  Prefecture. 

Young  Monsieur  de  Soulas  could  not  possibly  live  without 
a  tiger.  This  tiger  was  the  son  of  one  of  his  farmers,  a  small 
servant  aged  fourteen,  thick-set,  and  named  Babylas.  The 
lion  dressed  his  tiger  very  smartly — a  short  tunic  coat  of  iron- 
gray  cloth,  belted  with  patent  leather,  bright  blue  plush 
breeches,  a  red  waistcoat,  polished  leather  top-boots,  a  shiny 
hat  with  black  lacing,  and  brass  buttons  with  the  arms  of 
Soulas.  Amedee  gave  this  boy  white  cotton  gloves  and  his 
washing,  and  thirty-six  francs  a  month  to  keep  himself — a 
sum  that  seemed  enormous  to  the  grisettes  of  Besangon  :  four 
hundred  and  twenty  francs  a  year  to  a  child  of  fifteen,  with- 
out counting  extras !  The  extras  consisted  in  the  price  for 
which  he  could  sell  his  turned  clothes,  a  present  when  Soulas 
exchanged  one  of  his  horses,  and  the  perquisite  of  the  manure. 
The  two  horses,  treated  with  sordid  economy,  cost,  one  with 
another,  eight  hundred  a  year.  His  bills  for  articles  received 
from  Paris,  such  as  perfumery,  cravats,  jewelry,  patent  black- 
ing, and  clothes,  ran  to  another  twelve  hundred  francs.     Add 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  291 

to  this  the  groom,  or  tiger,  the  horses,  a  very  superior  style 
of  dress,  and  six  hundred  francs  a  year  for  rent,  and  you  will 
see  a  grand  total  of  three  thousand  francs. 

Now,  Monsieur  de  Soulas'  father  had  left  him  only  four 
thousand  francs  a  year,  the  income  from  some  cottage  farms 
in  rather  bad  repair,  which  required  keeping  up,  a  charge 
which  lent  painful  uncertainty  to  the  rents.  The  lion  had 
hardly  three  francs  a  day  left  for  food,  amusements,  and 
gambling.  He  very  often  dined  out,  and  breakfasted  with 
remarkable  frugality.  When  he  was  positively  obliged  to 
dine  at  his  own  cost,  he  sent  his  tiger  to  bring  a  couple  of 
dishes  from  a  cook-shop,  never  spending  more  than  twenty- 
five  sous. 

Young  Monsieur  de  Soulas  was  supposed  to  be  a  spendthrift, 
recklessly  extravagant,  whereas  the  poor  man  made  the  two 
ends  meet  in  the  year  with  a  keenness  and  skill  which  would 
have  done  honor  to  a  thrifty  housewife.  At  Besangon  in 
those  days  no  one  knew  how  great  a  tax  on  a  man's  capital 
were  six  francs  spent  in  polish  to  spread  on  his  boots  or 
shoes,  yellow  gloves  at  fifty  sous  a  pair,  cleaned  in  the  deepest 
secrecy  to  make  them  three  times  renewed,  cravats  costing  ten 
francs,  and  lasting  three  months,  four  waistcoats  at  twenty- 
five  francs,  and  trousers  fitting  close  to  the  boots.  How  could 
he  do  otherwise,  since  we  see  women  in  Paris  bestowing  their 
special  attention  on  simpletons  who  visit  them,  and  cut  out 
the  most  remarkable  men  by  means  of  these  frivolous  advan- 
tages, which  a  man  can  buy  for  fifteen  louis,  and  get  his  hair 
curled  and  a  fine  linen  shirt  into  the  bargain? 

If  this  unhappy  youth  should  seem  to  you  to  have  become 
a  lion  on  very  cheap  terms,  you  must  know  that  Amedee  de 
Soulas  had  been  three  times  to  Switzerland,  by  coach  and  in 
short  stages,  twice  to  Paris,  and  once  from  Paris  to  England. 
He  passed  as  a  well-informed  traveler,  and  could  say,  "  In 

England,   where  I  went "     The  dowagers  of  the  town 

would  say  to  him,  "You,  who  have  been  in  England " 


292  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

He  had  been  as  far  as  Lombardy,  and  seen  the  shores  of  the 
Italian  lakes.  He  read  new  books.  Finally,  when  he  was 
cleaning  his  gloves,  the  tiger  Babylas  replied  to  callers, 
"Monsieur  is  very  busy."  An  attempt  had  been  made  to 
withdraw  Monsieur  Amedde  de  Soulas  from  circulation  by 
pronouncing  him  "A  man  of  advanced  ideas."  Amedee  had 
the  gift  of  uttering  with  the  gravity  of  a  native  the  common- 
places that  were  in  fashion,  which  gave  him  the  credit  of  be- 
ing one  of  the  most  enlightened  of  the  nobility.  His  person 
was  garnished  with  fashionable  trinkets,  and  his  head  furnished 
with  ideas  hall-marked  by  the  press. 

In  1834  Amed6e  was  a  young  man  of  five-and-twenty,  of 
medium  height,  dark,  with  a  very  prominent  thorax,  well- 
made  shoulders,  rather  plump  legs,  feet  already  fat,  white 
dimpled  hands,  a  beard  under  his  chin,  mustaches  worthy  of 
the  garrison,  a  good-natured,  fat,  rubicund  face,  a  flat  nose, 
and  brown  expressionless  eyes;  nothing  Spanish  about  him. 
He  was  progressing  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  obesity,  which 
would  be  fatal  to  his  pretensions.  His  nails  were  well  kept, 
his  beard  trimmed,  the  smallest  details  of  his  dress  attended  to 
with  English  precision.  Hence  Am^d^e  de  Soulas  was  looked 
upon  as  the  finest  man  in  Besan§on.  A  hairdresser  who  waited 
upon  him  at  a  fixed  hour — another  luxury,  costing  sixty  francs 
a  year — held  him  up  as  the  sovereign  authority  in  matters  of 
fashion  and  elegance. 

Am6d6e  slept  late,  dressed  and  went  out  towards  noon,  to 
go  to  one  of  his  farms  and  practice  pistol-shooting.  He 
attached  as  much  importance  to  this  exercise  as  Lord  Byron 
did  in  his  later  days.  Then  at  three  o'clock  he  came  home, 
admired  on  horseback  by  the  grisettes  and  the  ladies  who 
happened  to  be  at  their  windows.  After  an  affectation  of 
study  or  business,  which  seemed  to  engage  him  till  four,  he 
dressed  to  dine  out,  spent  the  evening  in  the  drawing-rooms 
of  the  aristocracy  of  Besan^on  playing  whist,  and  went  home 
to  bed  at  eleven.     No  life  could  be  more  above-board,  more 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  298 

prudent,  or  more  irreproachable,  for  he  punctually  attended 
the  services  at  church  on  Sundays  and  holy  days. 

To  enable  you  to  understand  how  exceptional  is  such  a  life, 
it  is  necessary  to  devote  a  few  words  to  an  account  of  Besan^on. 
No  town  ever  offered  more  deaf  and  dumb  resistance  to  pro- 
gress. At  Besangon  the  officials,  the  employes,  the  military, 
in  short,  every  one  engaged  in  governing  it,  sent  thither  from 
Paris  to  fill  a  post  of  any  kind,  are  all  spoken  of  by  the 
expressive  general  name  of  "The  Colony."  The  colony  is 
neutral  ground,  the  only  ground  where,  as  in  church,  the 
upper  rank  and  the  townsfolk  of  the  place  can  meet.  Here, 
fired  by  a  word,  a  look,  or  gesture,  are  started  those  feuds 
between  house  and  house,  between  a  woman  of  rank  and  a 
citizen's  wife,  which  endure  till  death,  and  widen  the  impass- 
able gulf  which  parts  the  two  classes  of  society.  With  the 
exception  of  the  Clermont-Mont-Saint-Jean,  the  Beauffremont, 
the  de  Scey,  and  the  Gramont  families,  with  a  few  others  who 
come  only  to  stay  on  their  estates  in  the  Comte,  the  aristoc- 
racy of  Besangon  dates  no  further  back  than  a  couple  of 
centuries,  the  time  of  the  conquest  by  Louis  XIV.  This 
little  world  is  essentially  of  the  parlement,  and  arrogant,  stiff, 
solemn,  uncompromising,  haughty  beyond  all  comparison, 
even  with  the  Court  of  Vienna,  for  in  this  the  nobility  of 
Besangon  would  put  the  Viennese  drawing-rooms  to  shame. 
As  to  Victor  Hugo,  Nodier,  Fourier,  the  glories  of  the  town, 
they  are  never  mentioned,  no  one  thinks  about  them.  The 
marriages  in  these  families  are  arranged  in  the  cradle,  so 
rigidly  are  the  greatest  things  settled  as  well  as  the  smallest. 
No  stranger,  no  intruder,  ever  finds  his  way  into  one  of  these 
houses,  and  to  obtain  an  introduction  for  the  colonels  or 
officers  of  title  belonging  to  the  first  families  in  France  when 
quartered  there  requires  efforts  of  diplomacy  which  Prince 
Talleyrand  would  gladly  have  mastered  to  use  at  a  congress. 

In  1834  Amddee  was  the  only  man  in  Besan^on  who  wore 
trousers-straps  \  this  will  account  for  the  young  man's  being 


294  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

regarded  as  a  lion.  And  a  little  anecdote  will  enable  you  to 
understand  the  city  of  Besan9on. 

Some  time  before  the  opening  of  this  story,  the  need  arose 
at  the  prefecture  for  bringing  an  editor  from  Paris  for  the 
official  newspaper,  to  enable  it  to  hold  its  own  against  the 
little  Gazette,  dropped  at  Besangon  by  the  great  Gazette,  and 
the  Patriot,  which  frisked  in  the  hands  of  the  Republicans. 
Paris  sent  them  a  young  man,  knowing  nothing  about  la 
Franche  Comt6,  who  began  by  writing  them  a  leading  article 
of  the  school  of  the  Charivari.  The  chief  of  the  moderate 
party,  a  member  of  the  municipal  council,  sent  for  the  jour- 
nalist and  said  to  him,  "  You  must  understand,  monsieur,  that 
we  are  serious,  more  than  serious — tiresome  ;  we  resent  being 
amused,  and  are  furious  at  having  been  made  to  laugh.  Be  as 
hard  of  digestion  as  the  toughest  disquisitions  in  the  Revue 
des  Deux  Mondes,  and  you  will  hardly  reach  the  level  of 
Besangon." 

The  editor  took  the  hint,  and  thenceforth  spoke  the  most 
incomprehensible  philosophical  lingo.  His  success  was  com- 
plete. 

If  young  Monsieur  de  Soulas  did  not  fall  in  the  esteem  of 
Besangon  society,  it  was  out  of  pure  vanity  on  its  part ;  the 
aristocracy  were  happy  to  affect  a  modern  air,  and  to  be  able 
to  show  any  Parisians  of  rank  who  visited  the  Comt6  a  young 
man  who  bore  some  likeness  to  them. 

All  this  hidden  labor,  all  this  dust  thrown  in  people's  eyes, 
this  display  of  folly  and  latent  prudence,  had  an  object,  or  the 
lion  of  Besangon  would  have  been  no  son  of  the  soil.  Amedee 
wanted  to  achieve  a  good  marriage  by  proving  some  day  that 
his  farms  were  not  mortgaged,  and  that  he  had  some  savings. 
He  wanted  to  be  the  talk  of  the  town,  to  be  the  finest  and 
best-dressed  man  there,  in  order  to  win  first  the  attention, 
and  then  the  hand,  of  Mademoiselle  Rosalie  de  Watteville. 

In  1830,  at  the  time  when  young  Monsieur  de  Soulas  was 
setting  up  in  business  as  a  dandy,  Rosalie  was  but  fourteen. 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  295 

Hence,  in  1834,  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  had  reached  the 
age  when  young  persons  are  easily  struck  by  the  peculiarities 
which  attracted  the  attention  of  the  town  to  Amedee.  There 
are  many  lions  who  become  lions  out  of  self-interest  and  specu- 
lation. The  Wattevilles,  who  for  twelve  years  had  been  draw- 
ing an  income  of  fifty  tifousand  francs,  did  not  spend  more 
than  four-and-twenty  thousand  francs  a  year,  while  receiving 
all  the  upper  circle  of  Besangon  every  Monday  and  Friday. 
On  Monday  they  gave  a  dinner,  on  Friday  an  evening  party. 
Thus,  in  twelve  years,  what  a  sum  must  have  accumulated 
from  twenty-six  thousand  francs  a  year,  saved  and  invested 
with  the  judgment  that  distinguishes  those  old  families !  It 
was  very  generally  supposed  that  Madame  de  Watteville, 
thinking  she  had  land  enough,  had  placed  her  savings  in  the 
three  per  cents.,  in  1830.  Rosalie's  dowry  would  therefore, 
as  the  best  informed  opined,  amount  to  about  twenty  thousand 
francs  a  year.  So  for  the  last  five  years  Amed6e  had  worked 
like  a  mole  to  get  into  the  highest  favor  of  the  severe  Baroness, 
while  laying  himself  out  to  flatter  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville's 
conceit. 

Madame  de  Watteville  was  in  the  secret  of  the  devices  by 
which  Amed6e  succeeded  in  keeping  up  his  rank  in  Besangon, 
and  esteemed  him  highly  for  it.  Soulas  had  placed  himself 
under  her  wing  when  she  was  thirty,  and  at  that  time  had 
dared  to  admire  her  and  make  her  his  idol ;  he  had  got  so  far 
as  to  be  allowed — he  alone  in  the  world — to  pour  out  to  her 
all  the  unseemly  gossip  which  almost  all  very  precise  women 
love  to  hear,  being  authorized  by  their  superior  virtue  to  look 
into  the  gulf  without  falling,  and  into  the  devil's  snares  with- 
out being  caught.  Do  you  understand  why  the  lion  did  not 
allow  himself  the  very  smallest  intrigue  ?  He  lived  a  public  life, 
in  the  street  so  to  speak,  on  purpose  to  play  the  part  of  a  lover 
sacrificed  to  duty  by  the  Baroness,  and  to  feast  her  mind  with 
the  sins  she  had  forbidden  to  her  senses.  A  man  who  is  so 
privileged  as  to  be  allowed  to  pour  light  stories  into  the  ear  of 


296  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

a  bigot  is  in  her  eyes  a  charming  man.  If  this  exemplary 
youth  had  better  known  the  human  heart,  he  might  without 
risk  have  allowed  himself  some  flirtations  among  the  grisettes 
of  Besan^on  who  looked  up  to  him  as  a  king ;  his  affairs  might 
perhaps  have  been  all  the  more  hopeful  with  the  strict  and 
prudish  Baroness.  To  Rosalie  our  Cato  affected  prodigality  ; 
he  professed  a  life  of  elegance,  showing  her  in  perspective  the 
splendid  part  played  by  a  woman  of  fashion  in  Paris,  whither 
he  meant  to  go  as  Depute. 

All  these  manoeuvres  were  crowned  with  complete  success. 
In  1834  the  mothers  of  the  forty  noble  families  composing  the 
high  society  of  Besangon  quoted  Monsieur  Amedee  de  Soulas 
as  the  most  charming  young  man  in  the  town  ;  no  one  would 
have  dared  to  dispute  his  place  as  cock  of  the  walk  at  the 
Hotel  de  Rupt,  and  all  Besangon  regarded  him  as  Rosalie  de 
Watteville's  future  husband.  There  had  even  been  some  ex- 
change of  ideas  on  the  subject  between  the  Baroness  and  Amedee, 
to  which  the  Baron's  apparent  nonentity  gave  some  certainty. 

Mademoiselle  de  Watteville,  to  whom  her  enormous  pros- 
pective fortune  at  that  time  lent  considerable  importance,  had 
been  brought  up  exclusively  within  the  precincts  of  the  Hotel 
de  Rupt — which  her  mother  rarely  quitted,  so  devoted  was  she 
to  her  dear  archbishop — and  severely  repressed  by  an  exclu- 
sively religious  education,  and  by  her  mother's  despotism, 
which  held  her  rigidly  to  principles.  Rosalie  knew  abso- 
lutely nothing.  It  is  knowledge  to  have  learned  geography 
from  Guthrie,  sacred  history,  ancient  history,  the  history  of 
France,  and  the  four  rules,  all  passed  through  the  sieve  of  an 
old  Jesuit  ?  Dancing  and  music  were  forbidden,  as  being 
more  likely  to  corrupt  life  than  to  grace  it.  The  Baroness 
taught  her  daughter  every  conceivable  stitch  in  tapestry  and 
women's  work — plain  sewing,  embroidery,  knitting.  At 
seventeen  Rosalie  had  never  read  anything  but  the  "  Lettres 
6difiantes,"  and  some  works  on  heraldry.  No  newspaper  had 
ever  defiled  her  sight.     She  attended  mass  at  the  Cathedral 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  297 

every  morning,  taken  there  by  her  mother,  came  back  to 
breakfast,  did  needlework  after  a  little  walk  in  the  garden, 
and  received  visitors,  sitting  with  the  Baroness  until  dinner- 
time. Then,  after  dinner,  excepting  on  Mondays  and  Fri- 
days, she  accompanied  Madame  de  Watteville  to  other  houses 
to  spend  the  evening,  without  being  allowed  to  talk  more 
than  the  maternal  rule  permitted. 

At  eighteen  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  was  a  slight,  thin 
girl  with  a  flat  figure,  fair,  colorless,  and  insignificant  to  the 
last  degree.  Her  eyes,  of  a  very  light  blue,  borrowed  beauty 
from  their  lashes,  which,  when  downcast,  threw  a  shadow  on 
her  cheeks.  A  few,  freckles  marred  the  whiteness  of  her  fore- 
head, which  was  shapely  enough.  Her  face  was  exactly  like 
those  of  Albert  Diirer's  saints,  or  those  of  the  painters  before 
Perugino ;  the  same  plump,  though  slender  modeling,  the 
same  delicacy  saddened  by  ecstasy,  the  same  severe  guileless- 
ness.  Everything  about  her,  even  to  her  attitude,  was  sugges- 
tive of  those  virgins,  whose  beauty  is  only  revealed  in  its 
mystical  radiance  to  the  eyes  of  the  studious  connoisseur. 
She  had  fine  hands  though  red,  and  a  pretty  foot,  the  foot  of 
an  aristocrat. 

She  habitually  wore  simple  checked  cotton  dresses ;  but  on 
Sundays  and  in  the  evenings  her  mother  allowed  her  silk. 
The  cut  of  her  frocks,  made  at  Besan(pon,  also  made  her  ugly, 
while  her  mother  tried  to  borrow  grace,  beauty,  and  elegance 
from  Paris  fashions  ;  for  through  Monsieur  de  Soulas  she  pro- 
cured the  smallest  trifles  of  her  dress  from  there.  Rosalie 
had  never  worn  a  pair  of  silk  stockings  or  thin  boots,  but 
always  cotton  stockings  and  leather  shoes.  On  high  days  she 
was  dressed  in  a  muslin  frock,  her  hair  plainly  dressed,  and 
had  bronze  kid  shoes. 

This  education,  and  her  own  modest  demeanor,  hid  in 
Rosalie  a  spirit  of  iron.  Physiologists  and  profound  observers 
will  tell  you,  perhaps  to  your  great  astonishment,  that  tem- 
pers, characteristics,  wit,  or  genius  reappear  in  families  at  long 


298  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

intervals,  precisely  like  what  are  known  as  hereditary  diseases. 
Thus  talent,  like  the  gout,  sometimes  skips  over  two  genera- 
tions. We  have  an  illustrious  example  of  this  phenomenon 
in  George  Sand,  in  whom  are  resuscitated  the  force,  the 
power,  and  the  imaginative  faculty  of  the  Marechal  de  Saxe, 
whose  natural  granddaughter  she  is. 

The  decisive  character  and  romantic  daring  of  the  famous 
Watteville  had  reappeared  in  the  soul  of  his  grand-niece, 
reinforced  by  the  tenacity  and  pride  of  blood  of  the  Rupts. 
But  these  qualities — or  faults,  if  you  will  have  it  so — were  as 
deeply  buried  in  this  young  girlish  soul,  apparently  so  weak 
and  yielding,  as  the  seething  lavas  within  a  hill  before  it  be- 
comes a  volcano.  Madame  de  Watteville  alone,  perhaps,  sus- 
pected this  inheritance  from  two  strains.  She  was  so  severe 
to  her  Rosalie  that  she  replied  one  day  to  the  archbishop, 
who  blamed  her  for  being  too  hard  on  the  child,  "  Leave  me 
to  manage  her,  monseigneur.  I  know  her!  She  has  more 
than  one  Beelzebub  in  her  skin  !  " 

The  Baroness  kept  all  the  keener  watch  over  her  daughter, 
because  she  considered  her  honor  as  a  mother  to  be  at  stake. 
After  all,  she  had  nothing  else  to  do.  Clotilde  de  Rupt,  at 
this  time  five-and-thirty,  and  as  good  as  widowed,  with  a 
husband  who  turned  egg-cups  in  every  variety  of  wood,  who 
set  his  mind  on  making  wheels  with  six  spokes  out  of  iron- 
wood,  and  manufactured  snuff-boxes  for  every  one  of  his 
acquaintance,  flirted  in  strict  propriety  with  Amedee  de  Soulas. 
When  this  young  man  was  in  the  house,  she  alternately  dis- 
missed and  recalled  her  daughter,  and  tried  to  detect 
symptoms  of  jealousy  in  that  youthful  soul,  so  as  to  have 
occasion  to  repress  them.  She  imitated  the  police  in  its  deal- 
ings with  the  Republicans;  but  she  labored  in  vain.  Rosalie 
showed  no  symptoms  of  rebellion.  Then  the  arid  bigot 
accused  her  daughter  of  perfect  insensibility.  Rosalie  knew 
her  mother  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  if  she  had  thought 
young  Monsieur  de  Soulas  niccy  she  would  have  drawn  down 


ALBERT  SAVAROJ^.  ^9 

on  herself  a  smart  reproof.  Thus,  to  all  her  mother's  incite- 
ment she  replied  merely  by  such  phrases  as  are  wrongly  called 
Jesuitical — wrongly,  because  the  Jesuits  were  strong,  and  such 
reservations  are  the  chevaux  de  /rise  behind  which  weakness 
takes  refuge.  Then  the  mother  regarded  the  girl  as  a  dissem- 
bler. If  by  mischance  a  spark  of  the  true  nature  of  the  Watte- 
villes  and  the  Rupts  blazed  out,  the  mother  armed  herself  with 
the  respect  due  from  children  to  their  parents  to  reduce  Rosalie 
to  passive  obedience. 

This  covert  battle  was  carried  on  in  the  most  secret  seclusion 
of  domestic  life,  with  closed  doors.  The  vicar-general,  the 
dear  Abbe  Grancey,  the  friend  of  the  late  archbishop,  clever 
as  he  was  in  his  capacity  of  the  chief  Father  Confessor  of  the 
diocese,  could  not  discover  whether  the  struggle  had  stirred 
up  some  hatred  between  the  mother  and  daughter,  whether 
the  mother  was  jealous  in  anticipation,  or  whether  the  court 
Am^d^e  was  paying  to  the  girl  through  her  mother  had  not 
overstepped  its  due  limits.  Being  a  friend  of  the  family, 
neither  mother  nor  daughter  confessed  to  him.  Rosalie,  a 
little  too  much  harried,  morally,  about  young  de  Soulas,  could 
not  abide  him,  to  use  a  homely  phrase,  and  when  he  spoke  to 
her,  trying  to  take  her  heart  by  surprise,  she  received  him  but 
coldly.  This  aversion,  discerned  only  by  her  mother's  eye, 
was  a  constant  subject  of  admonition. 

"  Rosalie,  I  cannot  imagine  why  you  affect  such  coldness 
towards  Amedee.  Is  it  because  he  is  a  friend  of  the  family, 
and  because  we  like  him — your  father  and  I  ?  " 

"Well,  mamma,"  replied  the  poor  child  one  day,  "if  I 
made  him  welcome,  should  I  not  be  still  more  in  the  wrong  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  cried  Madame  de  Watte- 
ville.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of  such  words?  Your  mother 
is  unjust,  no  doubt,  and,  according  to  you,  would  be  so  in  any 
case  !  Never  let  such  an  answer  pass  your  lips  again  to  your 
mother "  and  so  forth. 

This  quarrel  lasted  three  hours  and  three-quarters,    Rosalie 


300  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

noted  the  time.  Her  mother,  pale  with  fury,  sent  her  to  her 
room,  where  Rosalie  pondered  on  the  meaning  of  this  scene 
without  discovering  it,  so  guileless  was  she.  Thus  young 
Monsieur  de  Soulas,  who  was  supposed  by  every  one  to  be  very 
near  the  end  he  was  aiming  at,  all  neckcloths  set,  and  by  dint 
of  pots  of  patent  blacking — an  end  which  required  so  much 
waxing  of  his  mustaches,  so  many  smart  waistcoats,  wore  out 
so  many  horseshoes  and  stays — for  he  wore  a  leather  vest,  the 
stays  of  the  lion — Am6d6e,  I  say,  was  farther  away  than  any 
chance  comer,  although  he  had  on  his  side  the  worthy  and  noble 
Abbe  de  Grancey. 

"  Madame,"  said  Monsieur  de  Soulas,  addressing  the  Baron- 
ess, while  waiting  till  his  soup  was  cool  enough  to  swallow, 
and  affecting  to  give  a  romantic  turn  to  his  narrative,  "one 
fine  morning  the  mail-coach  dropped  at  the  H6tel  National  a 
gentleman  from  Paris,  who,  after  seeking  apartments,  made  up 
his  mind  in  favor  of  the  first  floor  in  Mademoiselle  Galard's 
house.  Rue  due  Perron.  Then  the  stranger  went  straight  to 
the  Mairie,  and  had  himself  registered  as  a  resident  with  all 
political  qualifications.  Finally,  he  had  his  name  entered  on 
the  list  of  barristers  to  the  court,  showing  his  title  in  due 
form,  and  he  left  his  card  on  all  his  new  colleagues,  the 
ministerial  officials,  the  councilors  of  the  court  and  the  mem- 
bers of  the  bench,  with  the  name,  *  Albert  Savaron.'  " 

"The  name  of  Savaron  is  famous,"  said  Mademoiselle  de 
Watteville,  who  was  strong  in  heraldic  information.  "  The 
Savarons  of  Savarus  are  one  of  the  oldest,  noblest,  and  richest 
families  in  Belgium." 

"He  is  a  Frenchman,  and  no  man's  son,"  replied  Am^dde 
de  Soulas.  "If  he  wishes  to  bear  the  arms  of  the  Savarons 
of  Savarus,  he  must  add  a  bar-sinister.  There  is  no  one  left 
of  the  Brabant  family  but  a  Mademoiselle  de  Savarus^  a  rich 
heiress,  and  unmarried." 

"The  bar-sinister  is,  of  course,  the  badge  of  a  bastard; 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  '      301 

but  the  bastard  of  a  Comte  de  Savarus  is  noble,"  answered 
Rosalie. 

"  Enough,  that  will  do,  mademoiselle  !  "  said  the  Baroness. 

"You  insisted  on  her  learning  heraldry,"  said  Monsieur  de 
Watteville,  "and  she  knows  it  very  well." 

"  Go  on,  I  beg,  Monsieur  de  Soulas." 

"You  may  suppose  that  in  a  town  where  everything  is 
classified,  known,  pigeon-holed,  ticketed,  and  numbered,  as 
in  Besangon,  Albert  Savaron  was  received  without  hesitation 
by  the  lawyers  of  the  town.  They  were  satisfied  to  say, 
*  Here  is  a  man  who  does  not  know  his  Besan^on.  Who  the 
devil  can  have  sent  him  here?  What  can  he  hope  to  do? 
Sending  his  card  to  the  judges  instead  of  calling  in  person ! 
What  a  blunder !  And  so,  three  days  after,  Savaron  had 
ceased  to  exist.  He  took  as  his  servant  old  Monsieur  Galard's 
man — Galard  being  dead — Jerome,  who  can  cook  a  little. 
Albert  Savaron  was  all  the  more  completely  forgotten,  because 
no  one  had  seen  him  or  met  him  anywhere." 

"  Then,  does  he  not  go  to  mass?  "  asked  Madame  de  Cha- 
voncourt. 

"  He  goes  on  Sundays  to  Saint-Pierre,  but  to  the  early 
service,  at  eight  in  the  morning.  He  rises  every  night  between 
one  and  two  in  the  morning,  works  till  eight,  has  his  break- 
fast, and  then  goes  on  working.  He  walks  in  his  garden, 
going  round  fifty  or  perhaps  sixty  times ;  then  he  goes  in, 
dines,  and  goes  to  bed  between  six  and  seven." 

"  How  did  you  learn  all  that?"  Madame  de  Chavoncourt 
asked  Monsieur  Soulas. 

"In  the  first  place,  madame,  I  live  in  the  Rue  Neuve,  at 
the  corner  of  the  Rue  du  Perron  ;  I  look  out  on  the  house 
where  this  mysterious  personage  lodges ;  then,  of  course,  there 
are  communications  between  my  tiger  and  Jerome." 

"And  you  gossip  with  Babylas !  "  exclaimed  Madame  de 
Chavoncourt. 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  out  riding?  " 


302  ALBER  T  SA  VAR  ON. 

*•  Well — and  how  was  it  that  you  engaged  a  stranger  for 
your  defense?  "  asked  the  Baroness,  thus  placing  the  conversa- 
tion in  the  hands  of  the  vicar-general. 

"  The  president  of  the  court  played  this  pleader  a  trick  by 
appointing  him  to  defend  at  the  assizes  a  half-witted  peasant 
accused  of  forgery.  But  Monsieur  Savaron  procured  the  poor 
man's  acquittal  by  proving  his  innocence  and  showing  that 
he  had  been  a  tool  in  the  hands  of  the  real  culprits.  Not 
only  did  his  line  of  defense  succeed,  but  it  led  to  the  arrest 
of  two  of  the  witnesses,  who  were  proved  guilty  and  con- 
demned. His  speech  struck  the  court  and  the  jury.  One  of 
these,  a  merchant,  placed  a  difficult  case  next  day  in  the 
hands  of  Monsieur  Savaron,  and  he  won  it.  In  the  position 
in  which  we  found  ourselves,  Monsieur  Berryer  finding  it  im- 
possible to  come  to  Besan^on,  Monsieur  de  Garcenault  ad- 
vised him  to  employ  this  Monsieur  Albert  Savaron,  foretelling 
our  success.  As  soon  as  I  saw  him  and  heard  him,  I  felt  faith 
in  him,  and  I  was  not  wrong." 

"Is  he  then  so  extraordinary?"  asked  Madame  de  Cha- 
voncourt. 

"  Certainly,  madame,"  replied  the  vicar-general. 

"Well,  tell  us  about  it,"  said  Madame  de  Watteville. 

**  The  first  time  I  saw  him,"  said  the  Abbe  de  Grancey, 
"  he  received  me  in  his  outer  room  next  the  ante-room — old 
Galard's  drawing-room — which  he  has  had  painted  like  old 
oak,  and  which  I  found  to  be  entirely  lined  with  law-books, 
arranged  on  shelves  also  painted  as  old  oak.  The  painting 
and  the  books  are  the  sole  decoration  of  the  room,  for  the 
furniture  consists  of  an  old  writing-table  of  carved  wood,  six 
old  armchairs  covered  with  tapestry,  window  curtains  of  gray 
stuff  bordered  with  green,  and  a  green  carpet  over  the  floor. 
The  ante-room  stove  heats  this  library  as  well.  As  I  waited 
there  I  did  not  picture  my  advocate  as  a  young  man.  But 
this  singular  setting  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  his  person  ; 
for  Monsieur  Savaron  came  out  in  a  black  merino  dressing- 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  303 

gown  tied  with  a  red  cord,  red  slippers,  a  red  flannel  waist- 
coat, and  a  red  sraoking-cap." 

"The  devil's  colors  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  de  Watteville. 

"Yes,"  said  the  abbe;  "but  a  magnificent  head.  Black 
hair  already  streaked  with  a  little  gray,  hair  like  that  of  Saint 
Peter  and  Saint  Paul  in  pictures,  with  thick  shining  curls, 
hair  as  stiff  as  horsehair ;  a  round  white  throat  like  a  woman's; 
a  splendid  forehead,  furrowed  by  the  strong  median  line  which 
great  schemes,  great  thoughts,  deep  meditations  stamp  on  a 
great  man's  brow;  an  olive  complexion  marbled  with  red,  a 
square  nose,  eyes  of  flame,  hollow  cheeks,  with  two  long  lines 
betraying  much  suffering,  a  mouth  with  a  sardonic  smile,  and  a 
small  chin,  narrow,  and  too  short;  crows'  feet  on  his  temples; 
deep-set  eyes,  moving  in  their  sockets  like  burning  balls ;  but, 
in  spite  of  all  these  indications  of  a  violently  passionate  nature, 
his  manner  was  calm,  deeply  resigned,  and  his  voice  of  pene- 
trating sweetness,  which  surprised  me  in  court  by  its  easy 
flow;  a  true  orator's  voice,  now  clear  and  appealing,  some- 
times insinuating,  but  a  voice  of  thunder  when  needful,  and 
lending  itself  to  sarcasm  to  become  incisive. 

"  Monsieur  Albert  Savaron  is  of  middle  height,  neither 
stout  nor  thin.     And  his  hands  are  those  of  a  prelate. 

"The  second  time  I  called  on  him  he  received  me  in  his 
bedroom,  adjoining  the  library,  and  smiled  at  my  astonish- 
ment when  I  saw  there  a  wretched  chest  of  drawers,  a  shabby 
carpet,  a  camp-bed,  and  cotton  window-curtains.  He  came 
out  of  his  private  room,  to  which  no  one  is  admitted,  as 
J6r6me  informed  me;  the  man  did  not  go  in,  but  merely 
knocked  at  the  door. 

"  The  third  time  he  was  breakfasting  in  his  library  on  the 
most  frugal  fare ;  but  on  this  occasion,  as  he  had  spent  the 
night  studying  our  documents,  as  I  had  my  attorney  with  me, 
and  as  that  worthy  Monsieur  Girardet  is  long-winded,  I  had 
leisure  to  study  the  stranger.  He  certainly  is  no  ordinary 
man.     There  is  more  than  one  secret  behind  that  face,  at 


304  ALBERT  SA  VARON. 

once  so  terrible  and  so  gentle,  patient  and  yet  impatient, 
broad  and  yet  hollow.  I  saw,  too,  that  he  stooped  a  little, 
like  all  men  who  have  some  heavy  burden  to  bear," 

"  Why  did  so  eloquent  a  man  leave  Paris  ?  For  what  pur- 
pose did  he  come  to  Besan^on  ?  "  asked  pretty  Madame  de 
Chavoncourt.  "  Could  no  one  tell  him  how  little  chance  a 
stranger  has  of  succeeding  here  ?  The  good  folks  of  Besan9on 
will  make  use  of  him,  but  they  will  not  allow  him  to  make 
use  of  them.  Why,  having  come,  did  he  make  so  little 
effort  that  it  needed  a  freak  of  the  president's  to  bring  him 
forward  ?  ' ' 

"After  carefully  studying  that  fine  head,"  said  the  abb6, 
looking  keenly  at  the  lady  who  had  interrupted  him,  in  such 
a  way  as  to  suggest  that  there  was  something  he  would  not 
tell,  "  and  especially  after  hearing  him  this  morning  reply  to 
one  of  the  bigwigs  of  the  Paris  bar,  I  believe  that  this  man, 
who  may  be  five-and-thirty,  will  by-and-by  make  a  great 
sensation." 

**  Why  should  we  discuss  him  ?  You  have  gained  your 
action,  and  paid  him,"  said  Madame  de  Watteville,  watching 
her  daughter,  who,  all  the  time  the  vicar-general  had  been 
speaking,  seemed  to  hang  on  his  lips. 

The  conversation  changed,  and  no  more  was  heard  of 
Albert  Savaron. 

The  portrait  sketched  by  the  cleverest  of  the  vicars-general 
of  the  diocese  had  all  the  greater  charm  for  Rosalie  because 
there  was  a  romance  behind  it.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
she  had  come  across  the  marvelous,  the  exceptional,  which 
smiJes  on  every  youthful  imagination,  and  which  curiosity,  so 
eager  at  Rosalie's  age,  goes  forth  to  meet  half-way.  What  an 
ideal  being  w^as  this  Albert — gloomy,  unhappy,  eloquent, 
laborious,  as  compared  by  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  to  that 
chubby  fat  Count,  bursting  with  health,  paying  compliments, 
and  talking  of  the  fashions  in  the  very  face  of  the  splendor 
of  the  old  Counts  of  Rupt.     Amedee   had  cost  her  many 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  305 

quarrels  and  scoldings,  and,  indeed,  she  knew  him  only  too 
well ;  while  this  Albert  Savaron  offered  many  enigmas  to  be 
solved. 

"Albert  Savaron  de  Savarus,"  she  repeated  to  herself. 

Now,  to  see  him,  to  catch  sight  of  him !  This  was  the 
desire  of  the  girl  to  whom  desire  was  hitherto  unknown.  She 
pondered  in  her  heart,  in  her  fancy,  in  her  brain,  the  least 
phrases  used  by  the  Abbe  de  Grancey,  for  all  his  words  had 
told. 

"A  fine  forehead?"  said  she  to  herself,  looking  at  the 
head  of  every  man  seated  at  the  table;  "I  do  not  see  one 
fine  one.  Monsieur  de  Soulas'  is  too  prominent ;  Monsieur 
de  Grancey' s  is  fine,  but  he  is  seventy,  and  has  no  hair,  it  is 
impossible  to  see  where  his  forehead  ends." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Rosalie;  you  are  eating  nothing  ?  " 

"I  am  not   hungry,   mamma,"    said   she.     "A   prelate's 

hands "  she  went  on  to  herself.     "I  cannot  remember 

our  handsome  archbishop's  hands,  though  he  confirmed  me." 

Finally,  in  the  midst  of  her  coming  and  going  in  the  laby- 
rinth of  her  meditations,  she  remembered  a  lighted  window 
she  had  seen  from  her  bed,  gleaming  through  the  trees  of  the 
two  adjoining  gardens,  when  she  had  happened  to  wake  in  the 

night Then   that  was  his   light!"  thought  she.     "I 

might  see  him  !     I  will  see  him." 

"  Monsieur  de  Grancey,  is  the  chapter's  lawsuit  quite 
settled  ?  "  asked  Rosalie  point-blank  of  the  vicar-general,  dur- 
ing a  moment  of  silence. 

Madame  de  Watteville  exchanged  rapid  glances  with  the 
vicar-general. 

**  What  can  that  matter  to  you,  my  dear  child?"  she  said 
to  Rosalie,  with  an  affected  sweetness  which  made  her  daughter 
cautious  for  the  rest  of  her  days. 

"It  might  be  carried  to  the  Court  of  Appeal,  but   our 
adversaries  will  think  twice  about  that,"  replied  the  abbe. 
"  I  never  could  have  believed  that  Rosalie  would  think 

ao 


$0*  ALBERT  SAVARON: 

about  a  lawsuit  all  through  a  dinner,"  remarked  Madame  de 
Watteville. 

"Nor  I  either,"  said  Rosalie,  in  a  dreamy  way  that  made 
every  one  laugh.  "But  Monsieur  de  Grancey  was  so  full  of 
it  that  I  was  interested." 

The  company  rose  from  table  and  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room.  All  through  the  evening  Rosalie  listened  in  case 
Albert  Savaron  should  be  mentioned  again ;  but  beyond  the 
congratulations  offered  by  each  newcomer  to  the  abbe  on 
having  gained  his  suit,  to  which  no  one  added  any  praise  of 
the  advocate,  no  more  was  said  about  it.  Mademoiselle  de 
Watteville  impatiently  looked  forward  to  bedtime.  She  had 
promised  herself  to  wake  at  between  two  and  three  in  the 
morning,  and  to  look  at  Albert's  dressing-room  windows. 
When  the  hour  came,  she  felt  much  pleasure  in  gazing  at  the 
glimmer  from  the  lawyer's  candles  that  shone  through  the 
trees,  now  almost  bare  of  their  leaves.  By  the  help  of  the 
strong  sight  of  a  young  girl,  which  curiosity  seems  to  make 
longer,  she  saw  Albert  writing,  and  fancied  she  could  distin- 
guish the  color  of  the  furniture,  which  she  thought  was  red. 
From  the  chimney  above  the  roof  rose  a  thick  column  of 
smoke. 

"  While  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  he  is  awake — like  God  !  " 
thought  she. 

The  education  of  girls  brings  with  it  such  serious  problems 
— for  the  future  of  a  nation  is  in  the  mother — that  the  Uni- 
versity of  France  long  since  set  itself  the  task  of  having  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it.  Here  is  one  of  these  problems:  Ought 
girls  to  be  informed  on  all  points?  Ought  their  minds  to  be 
under  restraint?  It  need  not  be  said  that  the  religious  system 
is  one  of  restraint.  If  you  enlighten  them,  you  make  them 
demons  before  their  time  ;  if  you  keep  them  from  thinking, 
you  end  in  the  sudden  explosion  so  well  shown  by  Moli^re  in 
the  character  of  Agnds,  and  you  leave  this  suppressed  mind,  so 
fresh  and  clear-seeing,  as  swift  and  as  logical  as  that  of  a  sav- 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  3O7 

age,  at  the  mercy  of  an  accident.  This  inevitable  crisis  was 
brought  on  in  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  by  the  portrait 
which  one  of  the  most  prudent  abbes  of  the  Chapter  of 
Besangon  imprudently  allowed  himself  to  sketch  at  a  dinner 
party. 

Next  morning,  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville,  while  dressin<y. 
necessarily  looked  out  at  Albert  Savaron  walking  in  the  garden 
adjoining  that  of  the  Hotel  de  Rupt. 

"What  would  have  become  of  me,"  thought  she,  "if  he 
had  lived  anywhere  else  ?  Here  I  can,  at  any  rate,  see  him. 
What  is  he  thinking  about?  " 

Having  seen  this  extraordinary  man,  though  at  a  distance, 
the  only  man  whose  countenance  stood  forth  in  contrast  with 
crowds  of  Besangon  faces  she  had  hitherto  met  with,  Rosalie 
at  once  jumped  at  the  idea  of  getting  into  his  home,  of  ascer- 
taining the  reasons  of  so  much  mystery,  of  hearing  that  elo- 
quent voice,  of  winning  a  glance  from  those  fine  eyes.  All 
this  she  set  her  heart  on,  but  how  could  she  achieve  it? 

All  that  day  she  drew  her  needle  through  her  embroidery 
with  the  obtuse  concentration  of  a  girl  who,  like  Agnes,  seems 
to  be  thinking  of  nothing,  but  who  is  reflecting  on  things  in 
general  so  deeply  that  her  artifice  is  unfailing.  As  a  result  of 
this  profound  meditation,  Rosalie  thought  she  would  go  to 
confession.  Next  morning,  after  mass,  she  had  a  brief  inter- 
view with  the  Abbe  Giroud  at  Saint-Pierre,  and  managed 
so  ingeniously  that  the  hour  for  her  confession  was  fixed  for 
Sunday  morning  at  half-past  seven,  before  eight  o'clock  mass. 
She  committed  herself  to  a  dozen  fibs  in  order  to  find  herself, 
just  for  once,  in  the  church  at  the  hour  when  the  lawyer  came 
to  mass.  Then  she  was  seized  with  an  impulse  of  extreme 
affection  for  her  father  ;  she  went  to  see  him  in  his  workroom, 
and  asked  him  for  all  sorts  of  information  on  the  art  of  turn- 
ing, ending  by  advising  him  to  turn  larger  pieces,  columns. 
After  persuading  her  father  to  set  to  work  on  some  twisted 
pillars,  one  of  the  difl&culties  of  the  turner's  art,  she  suggested 


808  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

that  he  should  make  use  of  a  large  heap  of  stones  that  lay  in  the 
middle  of  the  garden  to  construct  a  sort  of  grotto  on  which  he 
might  erect  a  little  temple  or  Belvedere  in  which  his  twisted 
pillars  could  be  used  and  shown  off  to  all  the  world. 

At  the  climax  of  the  pleasure  the  poor  unoccupied  man 
derived  from  this  scheme,  Rosalie  said,  as  she  kissed  him, 
"Above  all,  do  not  tell  mamma  who  gave  you  the  notion; 
she  would  scold  me. ' ' 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  I  "  replied  Monsieur  de  Watteville,  who 
groaned  as  bitterly  as  his  daughter  under  the  tyranny  of  the 
terrible  descendant  of  the  Rupts. 

So  Rosalie  had  a  certain  prospect  of  seeing  ere  long  a 
charming  observatory  built,  whence  her  eyes  would  command 
the  lawyer's  private  room.  And  there  are  men  for  whose 
sake  young  girls  can  carry  out  such  master-strokes  of  di- 
plomacy, while,  for  the  most  part,  like  Albert  Savaron, 
they  know  it  not. 

The  Sunday  so  impatiently  looked  for  arrived,  and  Rosalie 
dressed  with  such  carefulness  as  made  Mariette,  the  ladies* 
maid,  smile. 

"It  is  the  first  time  I  ever  knew  mademoiselle  to  be  so 
fidgety,"  said  Mariette. 

"It  strikes  me,"  said  Rosalie,  with  a  glance  at  Mariette, 
which  brought  poppies  to  her  cheeks,  "  that  you  too  are  more 
particular  on  some  days  than  on  others." 

As  she  went  down  the  steps,  across  the  courtyard,  and 
through  the  gates,  Rosalie's  heart  beat,  as  everybody's  does 
in  anticipation  of  a  great  event.  Hitherto  she  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  walk  in  the  streets ;  for  a  moment  she 
had  felt  as  though  her  mother  must  read  her  schemes  on  her 
brow,  and  forbid  her  going  to  confession,  and  she  now  felt 
new  blood  in  her  feet,  she  lifted  them  as  though  she  trod  on 
fire.  She  had,  of  course,  arranged  to  be  with  her  confessor 
at  a  quarter-past  eight,  telling  her  mother  eight,  so  as  to  have 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  near  Albert.     She  got  to  church 


ALBER  T  SA  VARON.  309 

before  mass,  and  after  a  short  prayer,  went  to  see  if  the  Abbe 
Giroud  were  in  his  confessional,  simply  to  pass  the  time ;  and 
she  thus  placed  herself  in  such  a  way  as  to  see  Albert  as  he 
came  into  church. 

The  man  must  have  been  atrociously  ugly  who  did  not 
seem  handsome  to  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  in  the  frame 
of  mind  produced  by  her  curiosity.  And  Albert  Savaron, 
who  was  really  very  striking,  made  all  the  more  impression 
on  Rosalie  because  his  mien,  his  walk,  his  carriage,  everything 
down  to  his  clothing,  had  the  indescribable  stamp  which  can 
only  be  expressed  by  the  word  mystery. 

He  came  in.  The  church,  till  now  gloomy,  seemed  to 
Rosalie  to  be  illuminated.  The  girl  was  fascinated  by  his 
slow  and  solemn  demeanor,  as  of  a  man  who  bears  a  world 
on  his  shoulders,  and  whose  deep  gaze,  whose  very  gestures, 
combine  to  express  a  devastating  or  absorbing  thought.  Ro- 
salie now  understood  the  vicar-general's  words  in  their  fullest 
extent.  Yes,  those  eyes  of  tawny  brown,  shot  with  golden 
lights,  covered  an  ardor  which  revealed  itself  in  sudden  flashes. 
Rosalie,  with  a  recklessness  which  Mariette  noted,  stood  in 
the  lawyer's  way,  so  as  to  exchange  glances  with  him ;  and 
this  glance  turned  her  blood,  for  it  seethed  and  boiled  as 
though  its  warmth  were  doubled. 

As  soon  as  Albert  had  taken  a  seat.  Mademoiselle  de  Watte- 
ville quickly  found  a  place  whence  she  could  see  him  perfectly 
during  all  the  time  the  abbe  might  leave  her.  When  Mariette 
said  "Here  is  Monsieur  Giroud,"  it  seemed  to  Rosalie  that 
the  interval  had  lasted  no  more  than  a  few  minutes.  By 
the  time  she  came  out  from  the  confessional,  mass  was  over. 
Albert  had  left  the  church. 

"The  vicar-general  was  right,"  thought  she.  ^^ He  is 
unhappy.  Why  should  this  eagle — for  he  has  the  eyes  of  an 
eagle — swoop  down  on  Besangon  ?  Oh  !  I  must  know  every- 
thing !     But  how?" 

Under  the  smart  of  this  new  desire  Rosalie  set  the  stitches 


810  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

of  her  worsted-work  with  exquisite  precision,  and  hid  her 
meditations  under  a  little  innocent  air,  which  shammed  sim- 
plicity to  deceive  Madame  de  Watteville. 

From  that  Sunday,  when  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  had 
met  that  look,  or,  if  you  please,  received  this  baptism  of  fire — 
a  fine  expression  of  Napoleon's  which  may  be  well  applied  to 
love — she  eagerly  promoted  the  plan  for  the  Belvedere. 

"Mamma,"  said  she  one  day  when  two  columns  were 
turned,  "  my  father  has  taken  a  singular  idea  into  his  head  ; 
he  is  turning  columns  for  a  Belvedere  he  intends  to  erect  on 
the  heap  of  stones  in  the  middle  of  the  garden.  Do  you 
approve  of  it  ?    It  seems  to  me ' ' 

"  I  approve  of  everything  your  father  does,"  said  Madame 
de  Watteville  drily,  "  and  it  is  a  wife's  duty  to  submit  to  her 
husband  even  if  she  does  not  approve  of  his  ideas.  Why 
should  I  object  to  a  thing  which  is  of  no  importance  in  itself, 
if  it  only  amuses  Monsieur  de  Watteville  ?  " 

"  Well,  because  from  thence  we  shall  see  into  Monsieur  de 
Soulas'  rooms,  and  Monsieur  de  Soulas  will  see  us  when  we  are 
there.     Perhaps  remarks  may  be  made " 

"  Do  you  presume,  Rosalie,  to  guide  your  parents,  and 
think  you  know  more  than  they  do  of  life  and  the  pro- 
prieties?" 

"I  say  no  more,  mamma.  Besides,  my  father  said  that 
there  would  be  a  room  in  the  grotto,  where  it  would  be  cool, 
and  where  we  can  take  coffee." 

"  Your  father  has  had  an  excellent  idea,"  said  Madame  de 
Watteville,  who  forthwith  went  to  look  at  the  columns. 

She  gave  her  entire  approbation  to  the  Baron  de  Watteville's 
design,  while  choosing  for  the  erection  of  this  monument  a 
spot  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  which  could  not  be  seen 
from  Monsieur  de  Soulas'  windows,  but  whence  they  could 
perfectly  see  into  Albert  Savaron's  rooms.  A  builder  was 
sent  for,  who  undertook  to  construct  a  grotto,  of  which  the 
top  should  be  reached  by  a  path  three  feet  wide  through  the 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  %l\ 

rock-v,-ork,  where  periwinkles  would  grow,  iris,  clematis,  ivy, 
honeysuckle,  and  Virginia  creeper.  The  Baroness  desired  that 
the  inside  should  be  lined  with  rustic  woodwork,  such  as  was 
then  the  fashion  for  flower-stands,  with  a  looking-glass  against 
the  wall,  an  ottoman  forming  a  box,  and  a  table  of  inlaid  bark. 
Monsieur  de  Soulas  proposed  that  the  floor  should  be  of 
asphalt.  Rosalie  suggested  a  hanging  chandelier  of  rustic 
wood. 

"  The  Wattevilles  are  having  something  charming  done  in 
their  garden,"  was  rumored  in  Besan9on. 

**  They  are  rich,  and  can  aff'ord  a  thousand  crowns  for  a 
whim " 

**A  thousand  crowns!"  exclaimed  Madame  de  Chavon- 
court. 

"  Yes,  a  thousand  crowns,"  cried  young  Monsieur  de  Soulas. 
**  A  man  has  been  sent  for  from  Paris  to  rusticate  the  interior, 
but  it  will  be  very  pretty.  Monsieur  de  Watteville  himself  is 
making  the  chandelier,  and  has  begun  to  carve  the  wood." 

"  Berquet  is  to  make  a  cellar  under  it,"  said  an  abb6. 

"No,"  replied  young  Monsieur  de  Soulas,  "he  is  raising 
the  kiosk  on  a  concrete  foundation,  that  it  may  not  be 
damp." 

"  You  know  the  very  least  things  that  are  done  in  that 
house,"  said  Madame  de  Chavoncourt  sourly,  as  she  looked  at 
one  of  her  great  girls  waiting  to  be  married  for  a  year  past. 

Mademoiselle  de  Watteville,  with  a  little  flush  of  pride  in 
thinking  of  the  success  of  her  Belvedere,  discerned  in  herself 
a  vast  superiority  over  every  one  about  her.  No  one  guessed 
that  a'little  girl,  supposed  to  be  a  witless  goose,  had  simply 
made  up  her  mind  to  get  a  closer  view  of  the  lawyer  Savaron's 
private  study. 

Albert  Savaron's  brilliant  defense  of  the  Cathedral  Chapter 
was  all  the  sooner  forgotten  because  the  envy  of  other  lawyers 
was  aroused.  Also,  Savaron,  faithful  to  his  seclusion,  went 
nowhere.     Having  no  friends  to  cry  him  up,  and  seeing  no 


312  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

one,  he  increased  the  chances  of  being  forgotten  which  are 
common  to  strangers  in  such  a  town  as  Besan^on.  Neverthe- 
less, he  pleaded  three  times  at  the  commercial  tribunal  in 
three  knotty  cases  which  had  to  be  carried  to  the  superior 
court.  He  thus  gained  as  clients  four  of  the  chief  merchants 
of  the  place,  who  discerned  in  him  so  much  good  sense  and 
sound  legal  discernment  that  they  placed  their  claims  in  his 
hands. 

On  the  day  when  the  Watteville  family  inaugurated  the 
Belvedere,  Savaron  also  was  founding  a  monument.  Thanks 
to  the  connections  he  had  obscurely  formed  among  the  upper 
class  of  merchants  in  Besanqion,  he  was  starting  a  fortnightly 
paper,  called  the  Eastern  Review,  with  the  help  of  forty 
shares  of  five  hundred  francs  each,  taken  up  by  his  ten  first 
clients,  on  whom  he  had  impressed  the  necessity  for  promo- 
ting the  interests  of  Besangon,  the  town  where  the  traffic 
should  meet  between  Mulhouse  and  Lyons,  and  the  chief 
centre  between  Mulhouse  and  the  Rhone. 

To  compete  with  Strasbourg,  was  it  not  needful  that  Besan- 
^on  should  become  a  focus  of  enlightenment  as  well  as  of 
trade?  The  leading  questions  relating  to  the  interests  of 
Eastern  France  could  only  be  dealt  with  in  a  review.  What 
a  glorious  task  to  rob  Strasbourg  and  Dijon  of  their  literary 
importance,  to  bring  light  to  the  East  of  France,  and  compete 
with  the  centralizing  influence  of  Paris !  These  reflections, 
put  forward  by  Albert,  were  repeated  by  the  ten  merchants, 
who  believed  them  to  be  their  own. 

Monsieur  Savaron  did  not  commit  the  blund-er  of  putting  his 
name  in  front ;  he  left  the  finances  of  the  concern  to  his  chief 
client.  Monsieur  Boucher,  connected  by  marriage  with  one  of 
the  great  publishers  of  important  ecclesiastical  works  ;  but  he 
kept  the  editorship,  with  a  share  of  the  profits  as  founder. 
The  commercial  interest  appealed  to  Dole,  to  Dijon,  to 
Salins,  to  Neufch^tel,  to  the  Jura,  Bourg,  Nantua,  Lous-le- 
Saulnier.     The  concurrence  was  invited  of  the  learning  and 


ALBERT  S AVAR  ON.  313 

energy  of  every  scientific  student  in  the  districts  of  le  Bugey, 
la  Bresse,  and  Franche  Comte.  By  the  influence  of  com- 
mercial interests  and  common  feeling,  five  hundred  sub- 
scribers were  booked  in  consideration  of  the  low  price  :  the 
Review  cost  eight  francs  a  quarter. 

To  avoid  hurting  the  conceit  of  the  provincials  by  refusing 
their  articles,  the  lawyer  hit  on  the  good  idea  of  suggesting  a 
desire  for  the  literary  management  of  this  Review  to  Monsieur 
Boucher's  eldest  son,  a  young  man  of  two-and-twenty,  very 
eager  for  fame,  to  whom  the  snares  and  woes  of  literary 
responsibilities  were  utterly  unknown.  Albert  quietly  kept 
the  upper  hand,  and  made  Alfred  Boucher  his  devoted 
adherent.  Alfred  was  the  only  man  in  Besan^on  with  whom 
the  king  of  the  bar  was  on  familar  terms.  Alfred  came  in  the 
morning  to  discuss  the  articles  for  the  next  number  with 
Albert  in  the  garden.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  trial  num- 
ber contained  a  "Meditation"  by  Alfred,  which  Savaron 
approved.  In  his  conversations  with  Alfred,  Albert  would 
let  drop  some  great  ideas,  subjects  for  articles  of  which 
Alfred  availed  himself.  And  thus  the  merchant's  son  fancied 
he  was  making  capital  out  of  the  great  man.  To  Alfred, 
Albert  was  a  man  of  genius,  of  profound  politics.  The  com- 
mercial world,  enchanted  at  the  success  of  the  Review,  had  to 
pay  up  only  three-tenths  of  their  shares.  Two  hundred  more 
subscribers,  and  the  periodical  would  pay  a  dividend  to  the 
shareholders  of  five  per  cent.,  the  editor  remaining  unpaid. 
This  editing,  indeed,  was  beyond  price. 

After  the  third  number  the  Review  was  recognized  for  ex- 
change by  all  the  papers  published  in  France,  which  Albert 
henceforth  read  at  home.  This  third  number  included  a  tale 
signed  "A.  S.,"  and  attributed  to  the  famous  lawyer.  In 
spite  of  the  small  attention  paid  by  the  higher  circle  of 
Besan^on  to  the  Review,  which  was  accused  of  liberal  views, 
this,  the  first  novel  produced  in  the  county,  came  under  dis- 
cission that  mid-winter  at  Madame  de  Chavoncourt's. 


814  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

"Papa,"  said  Rosalie,  ^^ d.  Review  is  published  in  Besan- 
9on  ;  you  ought  to  take  it  in ;  and  keep  it  in  your  room, 
for  mamma  would  not  let  me  read  it,  but  you  will  lend  it  to 
me. 

Monsieur  de  Watteville,  eager  to  obey  his  dear  Rosalie, 
who  for  the  last  five  months  had  given  him  so  many  proofs 
of  filial  affection — Monsieur  de  Watteville  went  in  person 
to  subscribe  for  a  year  to  the  Eastern  Review  and  loaned 
the  four  numbers  already  out  to  his  daughter.  In  the  course 
of  the  night  Rosalie  devoured  the  tale — the  first  she  had  ever 
read  in  her  life — but  she  had  only  known  life  for  two  months 
past.  Hence  the  effect  produced  on  her  by  this  work  must 
not  be  judged  by  ordinary  rules.  Without  prejudice  of  any 
kind  as  to  the  greater  or  less  merit  of  this  composition  from 
the  pen  of  a  Parisian  who  had  thus  imported  into  the  province 
the  manner,  the  brilliancy,  if  you  will,  of  the  new  literary 
school,  it  could  not  fail  to  be  a  masterpiece  to  a  young  girl 
abandoning  all  her  intelligence  and  her  innocent  heart  to  her 
first  reading  of  this  kind. 

Also,  from  what  she  had  heard  said,  Rosalie  had  by  intuition 
conceived  a  notion  of  it  which  strangely  enhanced  the  interest 
of  this  novel.  She  hoped  to  find  in  it  the  sentiments,  and 
perhaps  something  of  the  life  of  Albert.  From  the  first  pages 
this  opinion  took  so  strong  a  hold  on  her,  that,  after  reading 
the  fragment  to  the  end,  she  was  certain  that  it  was  no  mistake. 
Here,  then,  is  this  confession,  in  which,  according  to  the 
critics  of  Madame  de  Chavoncourt's  drawing-room,  Albert 
had  imitated  some  modern  writers,  who,  for  lack  of  inventive- 
ness, relate  their  private  joys,  their  private  griefs,  or  the  mys- 
terious events  of  their  own  life : 

Ambition  for  Love's  Sake. 

In  1823  two  young  men,  having  agreed  as  a  plan  for  a  holi- 
day to  make  a  tour  through  Switzerland,  set  out  from  Lucerne 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  315 

one  fine  morning  in  the  month  of  July  in  a  boat  pulled  by 
three  oarsmen.  They  started  for  Fluelen,  intending  to  stop 
at  every  notable  spot  on  the  lake  of  the  four  cantons.  The 
views  which  shut  in  the  waters  on  the  way  from  Lucerne  to 
Fluelen  oflfer  every  combination  that  the  most  exacting  fancy 
can  demand  of  mountains  and  rivers,  lakes  and  rocks,  brooks, 
and  pastures,  trees,  and  torrents.  Here  are  austere  solitudes 
and  charming  headlands,  smiling  and  trimly  kept  meadows, 
forests  crowning  perpendicular  granite  cliffs  like  plumes, 
deserted  but  verdant  reaches  opening  out,  and  valleys  whose 
beauty  seems  the  lovelier  in  the  dreamy  distance. 

As  they  passed  the  pretty  hamlet  of  Gersau,  one  of  the 
friends  looked  for  a  long  time  at  a  wooden  house  which  seemed 
to  have  been  recently  built,  enclosed  by  a  paling,  and  stand- 
ing on  a  promontory,  almost  bathed  by  the  waters.  As  the  boat 
rowed  past,  a  woman's  head  was  raised  against  the  background 
of  the  room  on  the  upper  story  of  this  house,  to  admire  the 
effect  of  the  boat  on  the  lake.  One  of  the  young  men  met 
the  glance  thus  indifferently  given  by  the  unknown  fair  one. 

"  Let  us  stop  here,"  said  he  to  his  friend.  "  We  meant  to 
make  Lucerne  our  headquarters  for  seeing  Switzerland  ;  you 
will  not  take  it  amiss,  Leopold,  if  I  change  my  mind  and  stay 
here  to  take  charge  of  our  possessions.  Then  you  can  go 
where  you  please ;  my  journey  is  ended.  Pull  to  land,  men, 
and  put  us  out  at  this  village ;  we  will  breakfast  here.  I  will 
go  back  to  Lucerne  to  fetch  all  our  luggage,  and  before  you 
leave  you  will  know  in  which  house  I  take  a  lodging,  where 
you  will  find  me  on  your  return." 

"Here  or  at  Lucerne,"  replied  Leopold,  "the  difference 
is  not  so  great  that  I  need  hinder  you  from  following  your 
whim." 

These  two  youths  were  friends  in  the  truest  sense  of  the 
word.  They  were  of  the  same  age ;  they  had  learned  at  the 
same  school ;  and  after  studying  the  law,  they  were  spending 
their  holiday  in  the  classical  tour  in  Switzerland.     Leopold, 


316  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

by  his  father's  determination,  was  already  pledged  to  a  place 
in  a  notary's  office  in  Paris.  His  spirit  of  rectitude,  his  gen- 
tleness, and  the  coolness  of  his  senses  and  his  brain,  guaran- 
teed him  to  be  a  docile  pupil.  Leopold  could  see  himself  a 
notary  in  Paris :  his  life  lay  before  him  like  one  of  the  high- 
roads that  cross  the  plains  of  France,  and  he  looked  along  its 
whole  length  with  philosophical  resignation. 

The  character  of  his  companion,  whom  we  will  call  Ro- 
dolphe,  presented  a  strong  contrast  with  Leopold's,  and  their 
antagonism  had  no  doubt  had  the  result  of  tightening  the 
bond  that  united  them.  Rodolphe  was  the  natural  son  of  a 
man  of  rank,  who  was  carried  off  by  a  premature  death  before 
he  could  make  any  arrangements  for  securing  the  means  of 
existence  to  a  woman  he  fondly  loved  and  to  Rodolphe» 
Thus  cheated  by  a  stroke  of  fate,  Rodolphe's  mother  had  re- 
course to  a  heroic  measure.  She  sold  everything  she  owed  to 
the  munificence  of  her  child's  father  for  a  sum  of  more  than 
a  hundred  thousand  francs,  bought  with  it  a  life  annuity  for 
herself  at  a  high  rate,  and  thus  acquired  an  income  of  about 
fifteen  thousand  francs,  resolving  to  devote  the  whole  of  it  to 
the  education  of  her  son,  so  as  to  give  him  all  the  personal 
advantages  that  might  help  to  make  his  fortune,  while  saving, 
by  strict  economy,  a  small  capital  to  be  his  when  he  came  of 
age.  It  was  bold  ;  it  was  counting  on  her  own  life ;  but  with- 
out this  boldness  the  good  mother  would  certainly  have  found 
it  impossible  to  live  and  to  bring  her  child  up  suitably,  and 
he  was  her  only  hope,  her  future,  the  spring  of  all  her  joys. 

Rodolphe,  the  son  of  a  most  charming  Parisian  woman, 
and  a  man  of  mark,  a  nobleman  of  Brabant,  was  cursed  with 
extreme  sensitiveness.  From  his  infancy  he  had  in  every- 
thing shown  a  most  ardent  nature.  In  him  mere  desire  be- 
came a  guiding  force  and  the  motive  power  of  his  whole  being, 
the  stimulus  to  his  imagination,  the  reason  of  his  actions. 
Notwithstanding  the  pains  taken  by  a  clever  mother,  who 
was  alarmed  when  she  detected  this  predisposition,  Rodolphe 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  317 

wished  for  things  as  a  poet  imagines,  as  a  mathematician  cal- 
culates, as  a  painter  sketches,  as  a  musician  creates  melodies. 
Tender-hearted,  like  his  mother,  he  dashed  with  inconceivable 
violence  and  impetus  of  thought  after  the  object  of  his  desires ; 
he  annihilated  time.  While  dreaming  of  the  fulfillment  of 
his  schemes,  he  always  overlooked  the  means  of  attainment. 
"When  my  son  has  children,"  said  his  mother,  "he  will 
want  them  born  grown  up." 

This  fine  frenzy,  carefully  directed,  enabled  Rodolphe  to 
achieve  his  studies  with  brilliant  results,  and  to  become  what 
the  English  call  an  accomplished  gentleman.  His  mother 
was  then  proud  of  him,  though  still  fearing  a  catastrophe  if 
ever  a  passion  should  possess  a  heart  at  once  so  tender  and  so 
susceptible,  so  vehement  and  so  kind.  Therefore,  the  judi- 
cious mother  had  encouraged  the  friendship  which  bound 
L6opold  to  Rodolphe  and  Rodolphe  to  Leopold,  since  she 
saw  in  the  cold  and  faithful  young  notary  a  guardian,  a  com- 
rade, who  might  to  a  certain  extent  take  her  place  if  by  some 
misfortune  she  should  be  lost  to  her  son.  Rodolphe's  mother, 
still  handsome  at  three-and-forty,  had  inspired  Leopold  with 
an  ardent  passion.  This  circumstance  made  the  two  young 
men  even  more  intimate. 

So  Leopold,  knowing  Rodolphe  well,  was  not  surprised  to 
find  him  stopping  at  a  village  and  giving  up  the  projected 
journey  to  Saint-Gothard,  on  the  strength  of  a  single  glance 
at  the  upper  window  of  a  house.  While  breakfast  was  pre- 
pared for  them  at  the  Swan  Inn,  the  friends  walked  round  the 
hamlet  and  came  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  pretty  new  house; 
here,  while  gazing  about  him  and  talking  to  the  inhabitants, 
Rodolphe  discovered  the  residence  of  some  decent  folk,  who 
were  willing  to  take  him  as  a  boarder,  a  very  frequent  custom 
in  Switzerland.  They  offered  him  a  bedroom  looking  over 
the  lake  and  the  mountains,  and  whence  he  had  a  view  of  one 
of  those  immense  sweeping  reaches  which,  in  this  lake,  are 
the  admiration  of  every  traveler.     This  house  was  divided  by 


318  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

a  roadway  and  a  little  creek  from  the  new  house,  where  Ro- 
dolphe  had  caught  sight  of  the  unknown  fair  one's  face. 

For  a  hundred  francs  a  month  Rodolphe  was  relieved  of  all 
thought  for  the  necessaries  of  life.  But,  in  consideration  of 
the  outlay  the  Stopfer  couple  expected  to  make,  they  bar- 
gained for  three  months'  residence  and  a  month's  payment  in 
advance.  Rub  a  Swiss  ever  so  little,  and  you  find  the  usurer. 
After  breakfast,  Rodolphe  at  once  made  himself  at  home  by 
depositing  in  his  room  such  property  as  he  had  brought  with 
him  for  the  journey  to  the  Saint-Gothard,  and  he  watched 
Leopold  as  he  set  out,  moved  by  the  spirit  of  routine,  to  carry 
out  the  excursion  for  himself  and  his  friend.  When  Rodolphe, 
sitting  on  a  fallen  rock  on  the  shore,  could  no  longer  see 
Leopold's  boat,  he  turned  to  examine  the  new  house  with 
stolen  glances,  hoping  to  see  the  fair  unknown.  Alas  !  he 
went  in  without  its  having  given  a  sign  of  life.  During  din- 
ner, in  the  company  of  Monsieur  and  Madame  Stopfer, 
retired  coopers  from  Neufchatel,  he  questioned  them  as  to 
the  neighborhood,  and  ended  by  learning  all  he  wanted  to 
know  about  the  lady,  thanks  to  his  hosts'  loquacity ;  for  they 
were  ready  to  pour  out  their  budget  of  gossip  without  any 
pressing. 

The  fair  stranger's  name  was  Fanny  Lovelace.  This  name 
(pronounced  Loveless)  is  that  of  an  old  English  family,  but 
Richardson  has  given  it  to  a  creation  whose  fame  eclipses  all 
others  !  Miss  Lovelace  had  come  to  settle  by  the  lake  for 
her  father's  health,  the  physicians  having  recommended  him 
the  air  of  Lucerne.  These  two  English  people  had  arrived 
with  no  other  servant  than  a  little  girl  of  fourteen,  a  dumb 
child,  much  attached  to  Miss  Fanny,  on  whom  she  waited 
very  intelligently,  and  had  settled,  two  winters  since,  with 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Bergmann,  the  retired  head -gardeners 
of  his  excellency  Count  Borromeo  of  Isola  Bella  and  Isola 
Madre  in  the  Lago  Maggiore.  These  Swiss,  who  were  pos- 
sessed of  an  income  of  about  a  thousand  crowns  a  year,  had 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  319 

let  the  top  story  of  their  house  to  the  Lovelaces  for  three 
years,  at  a  rent  of  two  hundred  francs  a  year.  Old  Lovelace, 
a  man  of  ninety,  and  much  broken,  was  too  poor  to  allow 
himself  any  gratifications,  and  very  rarely  went  out;  his 
daughter  worked  to  maintain  him,  translating  English  books, 
and  writing  some  herself,  it  was  said.  The  Lovelaces  could 
not  afford  to  hire  boats  to  row  on  the  lake,  or  horses  and 
guides  to  explore  the  neighborhood. 

Poverty  demanding  such  privation  as  this  excites  all  the 
greater  compassion  among  the  Swiss,  because  it  deprives  them 
of  a  chance  of  profit.  The  cook  of  the  establishment  fed 
the  three  English  boarders  for  a  hundred  francs  a  month 
inclusive.  In  Gersau  it  was  generally  believed,  however,  that 
the  gardener  and  his  wife,  in  spite  of  their  pretensions,  used 
the  cook's  name  as  a  screen  to  net  the  little  profits  of  this 
bargain.  The  Bergmanns  had  made  beautiful  gardens  round 
their  house,  and  had  built  a  hothouse.  The  flowers,  the 
fruit,  and  the  botanical  rarities  of  this  spot  were  what  had 
induced  the  young  lady  to  settle  on  it  as  she  passed  through 
Gersau.  Miss  Fanny  was  said  to  be  nineteen  years  old  ;  she 
was  the  old  man's  youngest  child,  and  the  object  of  his  adula- 
tion. About  two  months  prior  she  had  hired  a  piano  from 
Lucerne,  for  she  seemed  to  be  crazy  about  music,  his  hosts 
informed  him. 

"She  loves  flowers  and  music,  and  she  is  unmarried!" 
thought  Rodolphe  ;  "  what  good  luck  !  " 

The  next  day  Rodolphe  went  to  ask  leave  to  visit  the  hot- 
houses and  gardens,  which  were  beginning  to  be  somewhat 
famous.  The  permission  was  not  immediately  granted.  The 
retired  gardeners  asked,  strangely  enough,  to  see  Rodolphe's 
passport ;  it  was  sent  to  them  at  once.  The  paper  was  not  re- 
turned to  him  till  next  morning,  by  the  hands  of  the  cook, 
who  expressed  her  master's  pleasure  in  showing  him  their 
place.  Rodolphe  went  to  the  Bergmanns,  not  without  a  cer- 
tain trepidation,  known  only  to  persons  of  strong  feelings, 


320  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

who  go  through  as  much  passion  in  a  moment  as  some  men 
experience  in  a  whole  lifetime. 

After  dressing  himself  carefully  to  gratify  the  old  gardeners 
of  the  Borromean  Islands,  whom  he  regarded  as  the  warders 
of  his  treasure,  he  went  all  over  the  grounds,  looking  at  the 
house  now  and  again,  but  with  much  caution  ;  the  old  couple 
treated  him  with  evident  distrust.  But  his  attention  was  soon 
attracted  by  the  little  English  deaf-mute,  in  whom  his  discern- 
ment, though  young  as  yet,  enabled  him  to  recognize  a  girl 
of  African,  or  at  least  of  Sicilian  origin.  The  child  had  the 
golden-brown  color  of  a  Havana  cigar,  eyes  of  fire,  Armenian 
eyelids  with  lashes  of  very  un-British  length,  hair  blacker  .than 
black ;  and  under  this  almost  olive  skin,  sinews  of  extraordi- 
nary strength  and  feverish  alertness.  She  looked  at  Rodolphe 
with  amazing  curiosity  and  effrontery,  watching  his  every 
movement. 

"To  whom  does  that  little  Moresco  belong?"  he  asked 
worthy  Madame  Bergmann. 

**  To  the  English,"  Monsieur  Bergmann  replied. 

"But  she  never  was  born  in  England  !  " 

"They  may  have,  perhaps,  brought  her  from  the  Indies," 
said  Madame  Bergmann. 

"  I  have  been  told  that  Miss  Lovelace  is  fond  of  music.  I 
should  be  delighted  if,  during  the  residence  by  the  lake  to 
which  I  am  condemned  by  my  doctor's  orders,  she  would 
allow  me  to  join  her." 

"  They  receive  no  one,  and  will  not  see  anybody,"  said  the 
old  gardener. 

Rodolphe  bit  his  lips  and  went  away,  without  having  been 
invited  into  the  house,  or  taken  into  the  part  of  the  garden 
that  lay  between  the  front  of  the  house  and  the  shore  of  the 
little  promontory.  On  that  side  the  house  had  a  balcony 
above  the  first  floor,  made  of  wood,  and  covered  by  the  roof, 
which  projected  deeply  like  the  roof  of  a  chalet  on  all  four 
sides  of  the  building,  in  the  Swiss  fashion.     Rodolphe  had 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  321 

loudly  praised  the  elegance  of  this  arrangement,  and  talked 
of  the  view  from  that  balcony,  but  all  in  vain.  When  he  had 
taken  leave  of  the  Bergraanns  it  struck  him  that  he  was  a 
simpleton,  like  any  man  of  spirit  and  imagination  disappointed 
of  the  result  of  a  plan  which  he  had  believed  would  succeed. 

In  the  evening  he,  of  course,  went  out  in  a  boat  on  the 
lake,  round  and  about  the  spit  of  land,  to  Brunnen  and  to 
Schwytz,  and  came  in  at  nightfall.  From  afar  he  saw  the 
window  open  and  brightly  lighted ;  he  heard  the  sound  of  a 
piano  and  the  tones  of  an  exquisite  voice.  He  made  the 
boatmen  stop,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  pleasure  of  listening 
to  an  Italian  air  delightfully  sung.  When  the  singing  ceased, 
Rodolphe  landed  and  sent  away  the  boat  and  rowers.  At  the 
cost  of  wetting  his  feet,  he  went  to  sit  down  under  the  water- 
worn  granite  shelf  crowned  by  a  thick  hedge  of  thorny  acacia, 
by  the  side  of  which  ran  a  long  lime  avenue  in  the  Berg- 
raanns' garden.  By  the  end  of  an  hour  he  heard  steps  and 
voices  just  above  him,  but  the  words  that  reached  his  ears 
were  all  Italian,  and  spoken  by  two  women. 

He  took  advantage  of  the  moment  when  the  two  speakers 
were  at  one  end  of  the  walk  to  slip  noiselessly  to  the  other. 
After  half  an  hour  of  struggling  he  got  to  the  end  of  the 
avenue,  and  there  took  up  a  position  whence,  without  being 
seen  or  heard,  he  could  watch  the  two  women  without  being 
observed  by  them  as  they  came  towards  him.  What  was  Ro- 
dolphe's  amazement  on  recognizing  the  deaf-mute  as  one  of 
them ;  she  was  talking  to  Miss  Lovelace  in  Italian. 

It  was  now  eleven  o'clock  at  night.  The  stillness  was  so 
perfect  on  the  lake  and  around  the  dwelling  that  the  two 
women  must  have  thought  themselves  safe ;  in  all  Gersau 
there  could  be  no  eyes  open  but  theirs.  Rodolphe  supposed 
that  the  girl's  dumbness  must  be  a  necessary  deception. 
From  the  way  in  which  they  both  spoke  Italian,  Rodolphe 
suspected  that  it  was  the  mother  tongue  of  both  girls,  and 
concluded  that  the  English  name  also  hid  some  disguise. 
21 


322  ALBERT  S AVAR  ON. 

"They  are  Italian  refugees,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  outlaws 
in  fear  of  the  Austrian  or  Sardinian  police.  The  young  lady 
waits  till  it  is  dark  to  walk  and  talk  in  security." 

He  lay  down  by  the  side  of  the  hedge,  and  crawled  like  a 
snake  to  find  a  way  between  two  acacia  shrubs.  At  the  risk 
of  leaving  his  coat  behind  him,  or  tearing  deep  scratches  in 
his  back,  he  got  through  the  hedge  when  the  so-called  Miss 
Fanny  and  her  pretended  deaf-and-dumb  maid  were  at  the 
other  end  of  the  path ;  then,  when  they  had  come  within 
twenty  yards  of  him  without  seeing  him,  for  he  was  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hedge,  and  the  moon  was  shining  brightly,  he 
suddenly  rose. 

"  Fear  nothing,"  said  he  in  French  to  the  Italian  girl,  "  I 
am  not  a  spy.  You  are  refugees,  I  have  guessed  that.  I  am 
a  Frenchman  whom  one  look  from  you  has  fixed  at  Gersau." 

Rodolphe,  startled  by  the  acute  pain  caused  by  some  steel 
instrument  piercing  his  side,  fell  like  a  log. 

'' Nellago  con pieira  !'"  said  the  terrible  dumb  girl. 

"  Oh,  Gina  !  "  exclaimed  the  Italian. 

"She  has  missed  me,"  said  Rodolphe,  pulling  from  the 
wound  a  stiletto,  which  had  been  turned  by  one  of  the  false 
ribs.  "  But  a  little  higher  up  it  would  have  been  deep  in  my 
heart.  I  was  wrong,  Francesca,"  he  went  on,  remembering 
the  name  he  had  heard  little  Gina  repeat  several  times;  "I 
owe  her  no  grudge,  do  not  scold  her.  The  happiness  of 
speaking  to  you  is  well  worth  the  prick  of  a  stiletto.  Only 
show  me  the  way  out ;  I  must  get  back  to  the  Stopfers'  house. 
Be  easy  ;  I  shall  tell  nothing." 

Francesca,  recovering  from  her  astonishment,  helped  Ro- 
dolphe to  rise,  and  said  a  few  words  to  Gina,  whose  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  The  two  girls  made  him  sit  down  on  a  bench  and 
take  off  his  coat,  his  waistcoat,  and  his  cravat.  Then  Gina 
opened  his  shirt  and  sucked  the  wound  strongly.  Francesca, 
who  had  left  them,  returned  with  a  large  piece  of  sticking- 
plaster,  which  she  applied  to  the  wound. 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  323 

"You  can  walk  now  as  far  as  your  house,"  she  said. 

Each  took  an  arm,  and  Rodolphe  was  conducted  to  a  side 
gate,  of  which  the  key  was  in  Francesca's  apron  pocket. 

'*  Does  Gina  speak  French  ?  "  said  Rodolphe  to  Francesca. 

"No.  But  do  not  excite  yourself,"  replied  Francesca  with 
some  impatience. 

"  Let  me  look  at  you,"  said  Rodolphe  pathetically,  "  for  it 
may  be  long  before  I  am  able  to  come  again " 

He  leaned  against  one  of  the  gate-posts  contemplating  the 
beautiful  Italian,  who  allowed  him  to  gaze  at  her  for  a  moment 
under  the  sweetest  silence  and  the  sweetest  night  that  ever, 
perhaps,  shone  on  this  lake,  the  king  of  these  beautiful  Swiss 
lakes. 

Francesca  was  quite  of  the  classic  Italian  type,  and  such  as 
imagination  supposes  or  pictures,  or,  if  you  will,  drean>s,  that 
Italian  women  are.  What  first  struck  Rodolphe  was  the  grace 
and  elegance  of  a  figure  evidently  powerful,  though  so  slender 
as  to  appear  fragile.  An  amber  paleness  overspread  her  face, 
betraying  sudden  interest,  but  it  did  not  dim  the  voluptuous 
glance  of  her  liquid  eyes  of  velvety  blackness.  A  pair  of 
hands  as  beautiful  as  ever  a  Greek  sculptor  added  to  the 
polished  arms  of  a  statue  grasped  Rodolphe's  arm,  and  their 
whiteness  gleamed  against  his  black  coat.  The  rash  French- 
man could  but  just  discern  the  long,  oval  shape  of  her  face, 
and  a  melancholy  mouth  showing  brilliant  teeth  between  the 
parted  lips,  full,  fresh,  and  brightly  red.  The  exquisite  lines 
of  this  face  guaranteed  to  Francesca  permanent  beauty ;  but 
what  most  struck  Rodolphe  was  the  adorable  freedom,  the 
Italian  frankness  of  this  woman,  wholly  absorbed  as  she  was 
in  her  pity  for  him. 

Francesca  said  a  word  to  Gina,  who  gave  Rodolphe  her  arm 
as  far  as  the  Stopfers'  door,  and  fled  like  a  swallow  as  soon  as 
she  had  rung. 

"  These  patriots  do  not  play  at  killing !  "  said  Rodolphe  to 
himself  as  he  felt  his  sufferings  when  he  found  himself  in  his 


324  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

bed.  ^''Nellago/^  Gin  a  would  have  pitched  me  into  the 
lake  with  a  stone  tied  to  my  neck." 

Next  day  he  sent  to  Lucerne  for  the  best  surgeon  there,  and 
when  the  surgeon  came,  enjoined  on  him  absolute  secrecy, 
giving  him  to  understand  that  his  honor  strictly  depended  on 
such  observance. 

Leopold  returned  from  his  excursion  on  the  day  when  his 
friend  first  got  out  of  bed.  Rodolphe  made  up  a  story,  and 
begged  him  to  go  to  Lucerne  to  fetch  their  luggage  and  letters. 
Leopold  brought  back  the  most  fatal,  the  most  dreadful 
news  :  Rodolphe's  mother  was  dead.  While  the  two  friends 
were  on  their  way  from  Bdle  to  Lucerne,  the  fatal  letter, 
written  by  Leopold's  father,  had  reached  Lucerne  the  day 
they  left  for  Fluelen. 

In  spite  of  Leopold's  utmost  precautions,  Rodolphe  fell  ill 
of  a  nervous  fever.  As  soon  as  Leopold  saw  his  friend  out 
of  danger,  he  set  out  for  France  with  a  power  of  attorney, 
and  Rodolphe  could  thus  remain  at  Gersau,  the  only  place  in 
the  world  where  his  grief  could  grow  calmer.  The  young 
Frenchman's  position,  his  despair,  the  circumstances  which 
made  such  a  loss  worse  for  him  than  for  any  other  man,  were 
known,  and  secured  him  the  pity  and  interest  of  every  one  at 
Gersau.  Every  morning  the  pretended  dumb  girl  came  to 
see  him  and  bring  him  news  of  her  mistress. 

As  soon  as  Rodolphe  could  go  out  he  went  to  the  Berg- 
manns'  house,  to  thank  Miss  Fanny  Lovelace  and  her  father 
for  the  interest  they  had  taken  in  his  sorrow  and  his  illness. 
For  the  first  time  since  he  had  lodged  with  the  Bergmanns  the 
old  Italian  admitted  a  stranger  to  his  room,  where  Rodolphe 
was  received  with  the  cordiality  due  to  his  misfortunes  and  to 
his  being  a  Frenchman,  which  excluded  all  distrust  of  him. 
Francesca  looked  so  lovely  by  candlelight  that  first  evening 
that  she  shed  a  ray  of  brightness  on  his  grieving  heart.  Her 
smiles  flung  the  roses  of  hope  on  his  woe.  She  sang,  not 
indeed  gay  songs,  but  grave  and  solemn  melodies  suited  to 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  325 

the  state  of  Rodolphe's  heart,  and  he  observed  this  touching 
care. 

At  about  eight  o'clock  the  old  man  left  the  young  people 
without  any  sign  of  uneasiness,  and  went  to  his  room.  When 
Francesca  was  tired  of  singing,  she  led  Rodolphe  on  to  the 
balcony,  whence  they  perceived  the  sublime  scenery  of  the 
lake,  and  signed  to  him  to  be  seated  by  her  on  a  rustic 
wooden  bench. 

'•  Am  I  very  indiscreet  in  asking  how  old  you  are,  cara 
Francesca?"  said  Rodolphe. 

"  Nineteen,"  said  she,  "  well  past." 

"If  anything  in  the  world  could  soothe  my  sorrow,"  he 
went  on,  "  it  would  be  the  hope  of  winning  you  from  your 
father,  whatever  your  fortune  may  be.  So  beautiful  as  you 
are,  you  seem  to  me  richer  than  a  prince's  daughter.  And  I 
tremble  as  I  confess  to  you  the  feelings  with  which  you  have 
inspired  me;  but  they  are  deep — they  are  eternal." 

"  Zitto  .^ "  said  Francesca,  laying  a  finger  of  her  right  hand 
on  her  lips.  "Say  no  more;  I  am  not  free.  I  have  been 
married  these  three  years." 

For  a  few  minutes  utter  silence  reigned.  When  the  Italian 
girl,  alarmed  at  Rodolphe's  stillness,  went  close  to  him,  she 
found  that  he  had  fainted. 

'  *  Povero  !  ' '  she  said  to  herself.    '  'And  I  thought  him  cold. ' ' 

She  fetched  some  salts,  and  revived  Rodolphe  by  making 
him  smell  at  them. 

"  Married  !  "  said  Rodolphe,  looking  at  Francesca.  And 
then  his  tears  flowed  freely. 

"Child!"  said  she.  "But  there  still  is  hope.  My  hus- 
band is " 

"  Eighty?"  Rodolphe  put  in. 

"  No,"  said  she  with  a  smile,  "  but  sixty-five.  He  has  dis- 
guised himself  as  much  older  to  mislead  the  police." 

"Dearest,"  said  Rodolphe,  "a  few  more  shocks  of  this 
kind   and  I   shall    die.     Only   when   you   have  known    me 


326  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

twenty  years  will  you  understand  the  strength  and  power  of 
my  heart,  and  the  nature  of  its  aspirations  for  happiness. 
This  plant,"  he  went  on,  pointing  to  the  yellow  jasmine 
which  covered  the  balustrade,  **  does  not  climb  more  eagerly 
to  spread  itself  in  the  sunbeams  than  I  have  clung  to  you  for 
this  month  past.  I  love  you  passionately.  That  love  will  be 
the  secret  fount  of  my  life — I  may  possibly  die  of  it." 

"Oh!  Frenchman,  Frenchman!"  said  she,  emphasizing 
her  exclamation  with  a  little  incredulous  grimace. 

"  Shall  I  not  be  forced  to  wait,  to  accept  you  at  the  hands 
of  time?"  said  he  gravely.  "  But  know  this  ;  if  you  are  in 
earnest  in  what  you  have  allowed  to  escape  you,  I  will  wait 
for  you  faithfully,  without  suffering  any  other  attachment  to 
grow  up  in  my  heart." 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"  None,"  said  he,  "  not  even  a  passing  fancy.  I  have  my 
fortune  to  make  ;  you  must  have  a  splendid  one,  nature  created 
you  a  princess " 

At  this  word  Francesca  could  not  repress  a  faint  smile, 
which  gave  her  face  the  most  bewitching  expression,  some- 
thing subtle,  like  what  the  great  Leonardo  has  so  well  depicted 
in  the  Gioconda.  This  smile  made  Rodolphe  pause.  "  Ah, 
yes  !  "  he  went  on,  "  you  must  suffer  much  from  the  destitu- 
tion to  which  exile  has  brought  you.  Oh,  if  you  would  make 
me  happy  above  all  men,  and  consecrate  my  love,  you  would 
treat  me  as  a  friend.  Ought  I  not  to  be  your  friend  ?  My 
poor  mother  has  left  sixty  thousand  francs  of  savings ;  take 
half." 

Francesca  looked  steadily  at  him.  This  piercing  gaze  went 
to  the  bottom  of  Rodolphe' s  soul. 

"  We  want  nothing  ;  my  work  amply  supplies  our  luxuries," 
she  replied  in  a  grave  voice. 

"  And  can  I  endure  that  a  Francesca  should  work? "  cried 
he.  "One  day  you  will  return  to  your  country  and  find  all 
you  left  there."     Again  the  Italian  girl  looked  at  Rodolphe. 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  327 

"  And  you  will  then  repay  me  what  you  may  have  conde- 
scended to  borrow,"  he  added,  with  an  expression  full  of 
delicate  feeling. 

"Let  us  drop  this  subject,"  said  she,  with  incomparable 
dignity  of  gesture,  expression,  and  attitude.  "  Make  a  splen- 
did fortune,  be  one  of  the  remarkable  men  of  your  country ; 
that  is  my  desire.  Fame  is  a  drawbridge  which  may  serve  to 
cross  a  deep  gulf.  Be  ambitious,  if  you  must.  I  believe  you 
have  great  and  powerful  talents,  but  use  them  rather  for  the 
happiness  of  mankind  than  to  deserve  me ;  you  will  be  all  the 
greater  in  my  eyes." 

In  the  course  of  this  conversation,  which  lasted  two  hours, 
Rodolphe  discovered  that  Francesca  was  an  enthusiast  for 
liberal  ideas,  and  for  that  worship  of  liberty  which  had  led  to 
the  three  revolutions  in  Naples,  Piedmont,  and  Spain.  On 
leaving,  he  was  shown  to  the  door  by  Gina,  the  so-called 
mute.  At  eleven  o'clock  no  one  was  astir  in  the  village, 
there  was  no  fear  of  listeners ;  Rodolphe  took  Gina  into  a 
corner,  and  asked  her  in  a  low  voice  and  bad  Italian,  "Who 
are  your  master  and  mistress,  child  ?  Tell  me,  I  will  give 
you  this  fine  new  gold-piece." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  girl,  taking  the  coin,  "my  master  is 
the  famous  bookseller  Lamporani  of  Milan,  one  of  the  leaders  of 
the  revolution,  and  the  conspirator  of  all  others  whom  Austria 
would  most  like  to  have  in  the  Spielberg." 

"A  bookseller's  wife!  Ah,  so  much  the  better,"  thought 
he  ;  "  we  are  on  an  equal  footing.  And  what  is  her  family  ?  " 
he  added,  "  for  she  looks  like  a  queen." 

"All  Italian  women  do,"  replied  Gina  proudly.  "Her 
father's  name  is  Colonna." 

Emboldened  by  Francesca's  modest  rank,  Rodolphe  had  an 
awning  fitted  to  his  boat  and  cushions  in  the  stern.  When 
this  was  done,  the  lover  came  to  propose  to  Francesca  to  come 
out  on  the  lake.  The  Italian  accepted,  no  doubt  to  carry  out 
her  part  of  a  young  English  miss  in  the  eyes  of  the  villagers, 


328  ALBERT  S AVAR  ON. 

but  she  brought  Ginawith  her.  Francesca  Colonna's  lightest 
actions  betrayed  a  superior  education  and  the  highest  social 
rank.  By  the  way  in  which  she  took  her  place  at  the  end  of 
the  boat  Rodolphe  felt  himself  in  some  sort  cut  off  from  her, 
and,  in  the  face  of  a  look  of  pride  worthy  of  an  aristocrat, 
the  familiarity  he  had  intended  fell  dead.  By  a  glance  Fran- 
cesca made  herself  a  princess,  with  all  the  prerogatives  she 
might  have  enjoyed  in  the  middle  ages.  She  seemed  to  have 
read  the  thoughts  of  this  vassal  who  was  so  audacious  as  to 
constitute  himself  her  protector. 

Already,  in  the  furniture  of  the  room  where  Francesca  had 
received  him,  in  her  dress,  and  in  the  various  trifles  she  made 
use  of,  Rodolphe  had  detected  indications  of  a  superior  char- 
acter and  a  fine  fortune.  All  these  observations  now  recurred 
to  his  mind ;  he  became  thoughtful  after  having  been  trampled 
on,  as  it  were,  by  Francesca's  dignity,  Gina,  her  half-grown-up 
confidante,  also  seemed  to  have  a  mocking  expression  as  she 
gave  a  covert  or  side  glance  at  Rodolphe.  This  obvious  disa- 
greement between  the  Italian  lady's  rank  and  her  manners  was 
a  fresh  puzzle  to  Rodolphe,  who  suspected  some  further  trick 
like  Gina's  assumed  dumbness, 

"  Where  would  you  go,  Signora  Lamporani?"  he  asked. 

"  Towards  Lucerne,"  replied  Francesca  in  French. 

"  Good  !  "  said  Rodolphe  to  himself,  "she  is  not  startled 
by  hearing  me  speak  her  name ;  she  had,  no  doubt,  foreseen 
that  I  should  ask  Gina — she  is  so  cunning.  Wliat  is  your 
quarrel  with  me?"  he  went  on,  going  at  last  to  sit  down  by 
her  side,  and  asking  her  by  a  gesture  to  give  him  her  hand, 
which  she  withdrew.  "  You  are  cold  and  ceremonious ;  what, 
in  colloquial  language,  we  should  call  shorts 

"  It  is  true,"  she  replied  with  a  smile.  "I  am  wrong.  It 
is  not  good  manners ;  it  is  vulgar.  In  French  you  would  call  it 
inartistic.  It  is  better  to  be  frank  than  to  harbor  cold  or 
hostile  feelings  towards  a  friend,  and  you  have  already  proved 
yourself  my  friend.     Perhaps  I  have  gone  too  far  with  you. 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  329 

You  must  have  taken  me  to  be  a  very  ordinary  woman." 
Rodolphe  made  many  signs  of  denial.  "Yes,"  said  the 
bookseller's  wife,  going  on  without  noticing  this  pantomime, 
which,  however,  she  plainly  saw.  "  I  have  detected  that,  and 
naturally  I  have  reconsidered  my  conduct.  Well !  I  will  put 
an  end  to  everything  by  a  few  words  of  deep  truth.  Under- 
stand this,  Rodolphe  :  I  feel  in  myself  the  strength  to  stifle  a 
feeling  if  it  were  not  in  harmony  with  my  ideas  or  anticipation 
of  what  true  love  is.  I  could  love — as  we  can  love  in  Italy, 
but  I  know  my  duty.  No  intoxication  can  make  me  forget  it. 
Married  without  my  consent  to  that  poor  old  man,  I  might  take 
advantage  of  the  liberty  he  so  generously  gives  me;  but  three 
years  of  married  life  imply  acceptance  of  its  laws.  Hence  the 
most  vehement  passion  would  never  make  me  utter,  even 
involuntarily,  a  wish  to  find  myself  free. 

"  Emilio  knows  my  character.  He  knows  that  without  my 
heart,  which  is  my  own,  and  which  I  might  give  away,  I 
should  never  allow  any  one  to  take  my  hand.  That  is  why  I 
have  just  refused  it  to  you.  I  desire  to  be  loved  and  waited 
for  with  fidelity,  nobleness,  ardor,  while  all  I  can  give  is 
infinite  tenderness  of  which  the  expression  may  not  overstep 
the  boundary  of  the  heart,  the  permitted  neutral  ground.  All 
this  being  thoroughly  understood.  Oh  !  "  she  went  on  with  a 
girlish  gesture,  "  I  will  be  as  coquettish,  as  gay,  as  glad,  as  a 
child  who  knows  comparatively  nothing  of  the  dangers  of 
familiarity." 

This  plain  and  frank  declaration  was  made  in  a  tone,  an 
accent,  and  supported  by  a  look  which  gave  it  the  deepest 
stamp  of  truth. 

"A  Princess  Colonna  could  not  have  spoken  better,"  said 
Rodolphe,  smiling. 

"Is  that,"  she  answered  with  some  haughtiness,  "a  reflec- 
tion on  the  humbleness  of  my  birth?  Must  your  love  flaunt 
a  coat-of-arms  ?  At  Milan  the  noblest  names  are  written  over 
shop-doors:    Sforza,    Canova,    Visconti,    Trivulzio,    Ursini; 


330  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

there  are  Archintos  apothecaries ;  but,  believe  me,  though  I 
keep  a  shop,  I  have  the  feelings  of  a  duchess." 

"  A  reflection  !     Nay,  madame,  I  meant  it  for  praise." 

"  By  comparison  ?  "  she  said  archly. 

"Ah,  once  for  all,"  said  he,  "not  to  torture  me  if  my 
words  should  ill  express  my  feelings,  understand  that  my  love 
is  perfect  \  it  carries  with  it  absolute  obedience  and  respect." 

She  bowed  as  a  woman  satisfied,  and  said,  **  Then  monsieur 
accepts  the  treaty  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "I  can  understand  that  in  a  rich  and 
powerful  feminine  nature  the  faculty  of  loving  ought  not  to  be 
wasted,  and  that  you,  out  of  delicacy,  wished  to  restrain  it. 
Ah  !  Francesca,  at  my  age  tenderness  requited,  and  by  so 
sublime,  so  royally  beautiful  a  creature  as  you  are — why,  it  is 
the  fulfillment  of  all  my  wishes.  To  love  you  as  you  desire  to 
be  loved — is  not  that  enough  to  make  a  young  man  guard 
himself  against  every  evil  folly  ?  Is  it  not  to  concentrate  all  his 
powers  in  a  noble  passion,  of  which  in  the  future  he  may 
be  proud,  and  which  can  leave  none  but  lovely  memories? 
If  you  could  but  know  with  what  hues  you  have  clothed  the 
chain  of  Pilatus,  the  Rigi,  and  this  superb  lake " 

"  I  want  to  know,"  said  she,  with  the  Italian  artlessness 
which  has  always  a  touch  of  artfulness." 

"  Well,  this  hour  will  shine  on  all  my  life  like  a  diamond 
on  a  queen's  brow." 

Francesca's  only  reply  was  to  lay  her  hand  on  Rodolphe's. 

"  Oh  dearest !  for  ever  dearest !  Tell  me,  have  you  never 
loved  ? " 

"  Never." 

"  And  you  allow  me  to  love  you  nobly,  looking  to  heaven 
for  the  utmost  fulfillment  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  gently  bent  her  head.  Two  large  tears  rolled  down 
Rodolphe's  cheeks. 

"Why!  what  is  the  matter?"  she  cried,  abandoning  her 
imperial  manner. 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  33I 

■  "  I  have  now  no  mother  whom  I  can  tell  of  my  happiness ; 
she  left  this  earth  without  seeing  what  would  have  mitigated 
her  agony " 

"What?"  said  she. 

"Her  tenderness  replaced  by  an  equal  tenderness- 


" Fovero  mioJ"  exclaimed  the  Italian,  much  touched. 
"Believe  me,"  she  went  on  after  a  pause,  "  it  is  a  very  sweet 
thing,  and  to  a  woman,  a  strong  element  of  fidelity  to  know 
that  she  is  all  in  all  on  earth  to  the  man  she  loves  ;  to  find 
him  lonely,  with  no  family,  with  nothing  in  his  heart  but  his 
love — in  short,  to  have  him  wholly  to  herself" 

When  two  lovers  thus  understand  each  other,  the  heart  feels 
delicious  peace,  supreme  tranquillity.  Certainty  is  the  basis 
for  which  human  feelings  crave,  for  it  is  never  lacking  to 
religious  sentiment ;  man  is  always  certain  of  being  fully 
repaid  by  God.  Love  never  believes  itself  secure  but  by  this 
resemblance  to  divine  love.  And  the  raptures  of  that  moment 
must  have  been  fully  felt  to  be  understood ;  it  is  unique  in 
life ;  it  can  never  return  no  more,  alas  !  than  the  emotions  of 
youth.  To  believe  in  a  woman,  to  make  her  your  human  re- 
ligion, the  fount  of  life,  the  secret  luminary  of  all  your  least 
thoughts  ! — is  not  this  a  second  birth  ?  And  a  young  man 
mingles  with  this  love  a  little  of  the  feeling  he  had  for  his 
mother. 

Rodolpheand  Francesca  for  some  time  remained  in  perfect 
silence,  answering  each  other  by  sympathetic  glances  full  of 
thoughts.  They  understood  each  other  in  the  midst  of  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  scenes  of  nature,  whose  glories,  inter- 
preted by  the  glory  in  their  hearts,  helped  to  stamp  on  their 
minds  the  most  fugitive  details  of  that  unique  hour.  There 
had  not  been  the  slightest  shade  of  frivolity  in  Francesca's 
conduct.  It  was  noble,  large,  and  without  any  second  thought. 
This  magnanimity  struck  Rodolphe  greatly,  for  in  it  he  recog- 
nized the  difference  between  the  Italian  and  the  Frenchwoman. 
The  waters,  the  land,  the  sky,  the  woman,  all  were  grandiose 


332  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

and  suave,  even  their  love  in  the  midst  of  this  picture,  so  vast 
in  its  exi^anse,  so  rich  in  detail,  where  the  sternness  of  the 
snowy  peaks  and  their  hard  folds  standing  clearly  out  against 
tly  blue  sky  reminded  Rodolphe  of  the  circumstances  which 
limited  his  happiness :  a  lovely  country  shut  in  by  snows. 

This  delightful  intoxication  of  soul  was  destined  to  be 
disturbed.  A  boat  was  approaching  from  Lucerne;  Gina, 
who  had  been  watching  it  attentively,  gave  a  joyful  start, 
though  faithful  to  her  part  as  a  mute.  The  bark  came  nearer; 
when  at  length  Francesca  could  distinguish  the  faces  on  board, 
she  exclaimed,  **  Tito  !  "  as  she  perceived  a  young  man.  She 
stood  up  and  remained  standing  at  the  risk  of  being  drowned. 
"Tito  !  Tito  !  "  cried  she,  impulsively  waving  her  handker- 
chief. 

Tito  desired  the  boatmen  to  slacken,  and  the  two  boats 
pulled  side  by  side.  The  Italian  and  Tito  talked  with  such 
extreme  rapidity,  and  in  a  dialect  unfamiliar  to  a  man  who 
hardly  knew  even  the  Italian  of  books,  that  Rodolphe  could 
neither  hear  nor  guess  the  drift  of  this  conversation.  But 
Tito's  handsome  face,  Francesca's  familiarity,  and  Gina's 
expression  of  delight,  all  aggrieved  him.  And  indeed  no  lover 
can  help  being  ill  pleased  at  finding  himself  neglected  for 
another,  whoever  he  may  be.  Tito  tossed  a  little  leather  bag 
to  Gina,  full  of  gold,  no  doubt,  and  a  packet  of  letters  to 
Francesca,  who  began  to  read  them,  with  a  farewell  wave  of 
the  hand  to  Tito. 

"Get  quickly  back  to  Gersau,"  she  said  to  the  boatmen. 
"  I  will  not  let  my  poor  Emilio  pine  ten  minutes  longer  than 
he  need." 

"  What  has  happened?  "  asked  Rodolphe,  as  he  saw  Fran- 
cesca finish  reading  the  last  letter. 

"Za  liberta  /"  she  exclaimed,  with  an  artist's  enthusiasm. 

"^  denaro,^^  added  Gina,  like  an  echo,  for  she  had  found 
her  tongue. 

"Yes,"  said  Francesca,  "no   more   poverty!     For   more 


ALBERT  SAVARON: 


333 


than  eleven  months  have  I  been  working,  and  I  was  beginning 
to  be  tired  of  it.     I  am  certainly  not  a  literary  woman." 

"Who  is  this  Tito?"  asked  Rodolphe. 

"The  secretary  of  state  to  the  financial  department  of  the 
humble  shop  of  the  Colonnas,  in  other  words  the  son  of  our 
ragionaio.  Poor  boy  !  he  could  not  come  by  the  Saint-Goth- 
ard,  nor  by  the  Mont-Cenis,  nor  by  the  Simplon  ;  he  came  by 
sea,  by  Marseilles,  and  had  to  cross  France.  Well,  in  three 
weeks  we  shall  be  in  Geneva,  and  living  at  our  ease.  Come, 
Rodolphe,"  she  added,  seeing  sadness  overspread  the  Paris- 
ian's face,  "  is  not  the  Lake  of  Geneva  quite  as  good  as  the 
Lake  of  Lucerne?" 

"But  allow  me  to  bestow  a  regret  on  the  Bergmanns'  de- 
lightful house,"  said  Rodolphe,  pointing  to  the  little  pro- 
montory. 

' '  Come  and  dine  with  us  to  add  to  your  associations,  povero 
mio,'^  said  she.  "This  is  a  great  day;  we  are  out  of  danger. 
My  mother  writes  that  within  a  year  there  will  be  an  amnesty. 
Oh  !  la  cara  patria  ! ' ' 

These  three  words  made  Gina  weep.  "Another  winter 
here,"  said  she,  "and  I  should  have  been  dead  !  " 

"  Poor  little  Sicilian  kid  !  "  said  Francesca,  stroking  Gina's 
head  with  an  expression  and  an  affection  which  made  Ro- 
dolphe long  to  be  so  caressed,  even  if  it  were  without  love. 

The  boat  grounded ;  Rodolphe  sprang  on  to  the  sand, 
offered  his  hand  to  the  Italian  lady,  escorted  her  to  the  door 
of  the  Bergmanns'  house,  and  went  to  dress  and  return  as  soon 
as  possible. 

When  he  joined  the  bookseller  and  his  wife,  who  were  sit- 
ting on  the  balcony,  Rodolphe  could  scarcely  repress  an  ex- 
clamation of  surprise  at  seeing  the  prodigious  change  which 
the  good  news  had  produced  in  the  old  man.  He  now  saw  a 
man  of  about  sixty,  extremely  well  preserved,  a  lean  Italian, 
as  straight  as  an  I,  with  hair  still  black  though  thin  and  show- 
ing a  white  skull,  with  bright  eyes,  a  full  set  of  white  teeth,  a 


334  ALBERT  S AVAR  ON. 

face  like  Caesar,  and  on  his  diplomatic  lips  a  sardonic  smile, 
the  almost  false  smile  under  which  a  man  of  good  breeding 
hides  his  real  feelings. 

*•  Here  is  my  husband  under  his  natural  form,"  said  Fran- 
cesca  gravely. 

"He  is  quite  a  new  acquaintance,"  replied  Rodolphe,  be- 
wildered. 

"Quite,"  said  the  bookseller;  "I  have  played  many  a 
part,  and  know  well  how  to  make  up.  Ah  !  I  played  one  in 
Paris  under  the  Empire,  with  Bourrienne,  Madame  Murat, 
Madame  d'Abrantis  <r  tutfe  quanti.  Everything  we  take  the 
trouble  to  learn  in  our  youth,  even  the  most  futile,  is  of  use. 
If  my  wife  had  not  received  a  man's  education — an  unheard-of 
thing  in  Italy — I  should  have  been  obliged  to  chop  wood  to 
get  my  living  here.  Povera  Francesca !  who  would  have  told 
me  that  she  would  some  day  maintain  me !  " 

As  he  listened  to  this  worthy  bookseller,  so  easy,  so  affable, 
so  hale,  Rodolphe  scented  some  mystification,  and  preserved 
the  watchful  silence  of  a  man  who  has  been  duped. 

"  Chg  avete,  signer?'''  Francesca  asked  with  simplicity. 
**  Does  our  happiness  sadden  you?  " 

"Your  husband  is  a  young  man,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 

She  broke  into  such  a  frank,  infectious  laugh  that  Rodolphe 
was  still  more  puzzled. 

"He  is  but  sixty-five,  at  your  service,"  said  she;  "but  I 
can  assure  you  that  even  that  is  something — to  be  thankful 
for!" 

"  I  do  not  like  to  hear  you  jest  about  an  affection  so  sacred 
as  this,  of  which  you  yourself  prescribed  the  conditions." 

"Z/VA?./"  said  she,  stamping  her  foot,  and  looking  whether 
her  husband  were  listening.  "  Never  disturb  the  peace  of 
mind  of  that  dear  man,  as  simple  as  a  child,  and  with  whom 
I  can  do  what  I  please.  He  is  under  my  protection,"  she 
added.  "  If  you  could  know  with  what  generosity  he  risked 
his  life  and  fortune  because  I  was  a  Liberal !  for  he  does  not 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  335 

share  my  political  opinions.  Is  not  that  love,  Monsieur 
Frenchman  ?  But  they  are  like  that  in  his  family.  Emilio's 
younger  brother  was  deserted  for  a  handsome  youth  by  the 
woman  he  loved.  He  thrust  his  sword  through  his  own  heart 
ten  minutes  after  he  had  said  to  his  servant,  *  I  could  of  course 
kill  my  rival,  but  it  would  grieve  the  Diva  too  deeply.'  " 

This  mixture  of  dignity  and  banter,  of  haughtiness  and 
playfulness,  made  Francesca  at  this  moment  the  most  fascina- 
ting creature  in  the  world.  The  dinner  and  the  evening  were 
full  of  cheerfulness,  justified,  indeed,  by  the  relief  of  the  two 
refugees,  but  depressing  to  Rodolphe. 

"  Can  she  be  fickle  ?  "  he  asked  himself  as  he  returned  to 
the  Stopfers'  house.  **  She  sympathized  in  my  sorrow,  and  I 
cannot  take  part  in  her  joy  !  " 

He  blamed  himself,  justifying  this  girl-wife. 

"  She  has  no  taint  of  hypocrisy,  and  is  carried  away  by 
impulse,"  thought  he,  **  and  I  want  her  to  be  like  a  Parisian 
woman." 

Next  day  and  the  following  days — in  fact,  for  twenty  days 
after — Rodolphe  spent  all  his  time  at  the  Bergmanns',  watch- 
ing Francesca  without  having  determined  to  watch  her.  In 
some  souls  admiration  is  not  independent  of  a  certain  pene- 
tration. The  young  Frenchman  discerned  in  Francesca  the 
imprudence  of  girlhood,  the  true  nature  of  a  woman  as  yet 
unbroken,  sometimes  struggling  against  her  love,  and  at  other 
moments  yielding  and  carried  away  by  it.  The  old  man  cer- 
tainly behaved  to  her  as  a  father  to  his  daughter,  and  Fran- 
cesca treated  him  with  a  deeply  felt  gratitude  which  roused 
her  instinctive  nobleness.  The  situation  and  the  woman 
were  to  Rodolphe  an  impenetrable  enigma,  of  which  the  solu- 
tion attracted  him  more  and  more. 

These  last  days  were  full  of  secret  joys,  alternating  with 
melancholy  moods,  with  tiffs  and  quarrels  even  more  delight- 
ful than  the  hours  when  Rodolphe  and  Francesca  were  of  one 


336  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

mind.  And  he  was  more  and  more  fascinated  by  this  tender- 
ness apart  from  wit,  always  and  in  all  things  the  same,  an 
affection  that  was  jealous  of  mere  nothings — already  ! 

"You  care  very  much  for  luxury?"  said  he  one  evening  to 
Francesca,  who  was  expressing  her  wish  to  get  away  from 
Gersau,  where  she  missed  many  things. 

"  I !  "  cried  she.  "  I  love  luxury  as  I  love  the  arts,  as  I 
love  a  picture  by  Raphael,  a  fine  horse,  a  beautiful  day,  or  the 
Bay  of  Naples.  Emilio,"  she  went  on,  "  have  I  ever  com- 
plained here  during  our  days  of  privation  ?  " 

"You  would  not  have  been  yourself  if  you  had,"  replied 
the  old  man  gravely. 

"  After  all,  is  it  not  in  the  nature  of  plain  folks  to  aspire  to 
grandeur?"  she  asked,  with  a  mischievous  glance  at  Ro- 
dolphe  and  at  her  husband.  "Were  my  feet  made  for 
fatigue?"  she  added,  putting  out  two  pretty  little  feet. 
"  My  hands  " — and  she  held  one  out  to  Rodolphe — "  were 
those  hands  made  to  work?  Leave  us,"  she  said  to  her  hus- 
band ;  "I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

The  old  man  went  into  the  drawing-room  with  sublime 
good  faith ;  he  was  sure  of  his  wife. 

"  I  will  not  have  you  come  with  us  to  Geneva,"  she  said  to 
Rodolphe.  "  It  is  a  gossiping  town.  Though  I  am  far 
above  the  nonsense  the  world  talks,  I  do  not  choose  to  be 
calumniated,  not  for  my  own  sake,  but  for  his.  I  make  it 
my  pride  to  be  the  glory  of  that  old  man,  who  is,  after  all, 
my  only  protector.  We  are  leaving  ;  stay  here  a  few  days. 
When  you  come  on  to  Geneva,  call  first  on  my  husband,  and 
let  him  introduce  you  to  me.  Let  us  hide  our  great  and 
unchangeable  affection  from  the  eyes  of  the  world.  I  love 
you ;  you  know  it ;  but  this  is  how  I  will  prove  it  to  you — 
you  shall  never  discern  in  my  conduct  anything  whatever 
that  may  arouse  your  jealousy." 

She  drew  him  into  a  corner  of  the  balcony,  kissed  him  on 
the  forehead,  and  fled,  leaving  him  in  amazement. 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  337 

Next  day  Rodolphe  heard  that  the  lodgers  at  the  Berg- 
manns'  had  left  at  daybreak.  It  then  seemed  to  him  intoler- 
able to  remain  at  Gersau,  and  he  set  out  for  Vevay  by  the 
longest  route,  starting  sooner  than  was  necessary.  Attracted 
to  the  waters  of  the  lake  where  the  beautiful  Italian  awaited 
him,  he  reached  Geneva  by  the  end  of  October.  To  avoid 
the  discomforts  of  the  town  he  took  rooms  in  a  house  at 
Eaux-Vives,  outside  the  walls.  As  soon  as  he  was  settled,  his 
first  care  was  to  ask  his  landlord,  a  retired  jeweler,  whether 
some  Italian  refugees  from  Milan  had  not  lately  come  to 
reside  at  Geneva. 

"Not  so  far  as  I  know,"  replied  the  man.  "Prince  and 
Princess  Colonna  of  Rome  have  taken  Monsieur  Jeanrenaud's 
place  for  three  years ;  it  is  one  of  the  finest  on  the  lake.  It 
is  situated  between  the  Villa  Diodati  and  that  of  Monsieur 
Lafin-de-Dieu,  let  to  the  Vicomtesse  de  Beauseant.  Prince 
Colonna  has  come  to  see  his  daughter  and  his  son-in-law, 
Prince  Gandolphini,  a  Neapolitan,  or  if  you  like,  a  Sicilian, 
an  old  adherent  of  King  Murat's,  and  a  victim  of  the  last 
revolution.  These  are  the  last  arrivals  at  Geneva,  and  they 
are  not  Milanese.  Serious  steps  had  to  be  taken,  and  the 
pope's  interest  in  the  Colonna  family  was  invoked,  to  obtain 
permission  from  the  foreign  powers  and  the  King  of  Naples 
for  the  Prince  and  Princesse  Gandolphini  to  live  here.  Ge- 
neva is  anxious  to  do  nothing  to  displease  the  Holy  Alliance  to 
which  it  owes  its  independence.  Our  part  is  not  to  ruffle  for- 
eign courts:  there  are  many  foreigners  here,  Russians  and 
English." 

"  Even  some  Genevese?  " 

"Yes,  monsieur,  our  lake  is  so  fine  !  Lord  Byron  lived  here 
about  seven  years  at  the  Villa  Diodati,  which  every  one  goes 
to  see  now,  like  Coppet  and  Ferney." 

"You  cannot  tell  me  whether  within  a  week  or  so  a  book- 
seller from  Milan  has  come  with  his  wife — named  Lamporani, 
one  of  the  leaders  of  the  last  revolution  ?  " 
2? 


338  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

*'  I  could  easily  find  out  by  going  to  the  Foreigners'  Club," 
said  the  jeweler. 

Rodolphe's  first  walk  was  very  naturally  to  the  Villa  Dio- 
dati,  the  residence  of  Lord  Byron,  whose  recent  death  added 
to  its  attractiveness:  for  is  not  death  the  consecration  of 
genius?" 

The  road  to  Eaux-Vives  follows  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and, 
like  all  the  roads  in  Switzerland,  is  very  narrow ;  in  some 
spots,  in  consequence  of  the  configuration  of  the  hilly 
ground,  there  is  scarcely  space  for  two  carriages  to  pass  each 
other. 

At  a  few  yards  from  the  Jeanrenauds'  house,  which  he 
was  approaching  without  knowing  it,  Rodolphe  heard  the 
sound  of  a  carriage  behind  him,  and,  finding  himself  in  a  sunken 
road,  he  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  rock  to  leave  the  road  free. 
Of  course  he  looked  at  the  approaching  carriage — an  elegant 
English  phaeton,  with  a  splendid  pair  of  English  horses.  He 
felt  quite  dizzy  as  he  beheld  in  this  carriage  Francesca,  beau- 
tifully dressed,  by  the  side  of  an  old  lady  as  hard  as  a  cameo. 
A  servant  blazing  with  gold  lace  stood  behind.  Francesca 
recognized  Rodolphe,  and  smiled  at  seeing  him  like  a  statue 
on  a  pedestal.  The  carriage,  which  the  lover  followed  with 
his  eyes  as  he  climbed  the  hill,  turned  in  at  the  gate  of  a 
country  house,  towards  which  he  ran. 

"  Who  lives  here?  "  he  asked  of  the  gardener. 

"  Prince  and  Princess  Colonna,  and  Prince  and  Princess 
Gandolphini." 

**  Have  they  not  just  driven  in?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

In  that  instant  a  veil  fell  from  Rodolphe's  eyes ;  he  saw 
clearly  the  meaning  of  the  past. 

"If  only  this  is  her  last  piece  of  trickery  !  "  thought  the 
thunder-stricken  lover  to  himself. 

He  trembled  lest  he  should  have  been  the  plaything  of  a 
whim,  for  he  had  heard  what  a  capriccio  might  mean  in  an 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  339 

Italian.  But  what  a  crime  had  he  committed  in  the  eyes  of  a 
woman — in  accepting  a  born  princess  as  a  citizen's  wife  !  in 
believing  that  a  daughter  of  one  of  the  most  illustrious  houses 
of  the  middle  ages  was  the  wife  of  a  bookseller  !  The  con- 
sciousness of  his  blunders  increased  Rodolphe's  desire  to 
know  whether  he  would  be  ignored  and  repelled.  He  asked 
for  Prince  Gandolphini,  sending  in  his  card,  and  was  imme- 
diately received  by  the  false  Lamporani,  who  came  forward 
to  meet  him,  welcomed  him  with  the  best  possible  grace,  and 
took  him  to  walk  on  a  terrace  whence  there  was  a  view  of 
Geneva,  the  Jura,  the  hills  covered  with  villas,  and  below 
them  a  wide  expanse  of  the  lake. 

"My  wife  is  faithful  to  the  lakes,  you  see,"  he  remarked, 
after  pointing  out  the  details  to  his  visitor.  "  We  have  a  sort 
of  concert  this  evening,"  he  added,  as  they  returned  to  the 
splendid  Villa  Jeanrenaud.  "  I  hope  you  will  do  me  and  the 
Princess  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  Two  months  of  poverty 
endured  in  intimacy  are  equal  to  years  of  friendship." 

Though  he  was  consumed  by  curiosity,  Rodolphe  dared  not 
ask  to  see  the  Princess  ;  he  slowly  made  his  way  back  to 
Eaux-Vives,  looking  forward  to  the  evening.  In  a  few  hours 
his  passion,  great  as  it  had  already  been,  was  augmented  by 
his  anxiety  and  by  suspense  as  to  future  events.  He  now 
understood  the  necessity  for  making  himself  famous,  that  he 
might  some  day  find  himself,  socially  speaking,  on  a  level 
with  his  idol.  In  his  eyes  Francesca  was  made  really  great 
by  the  simplicity  and  ease  of  her  conduct  at  Gersau.  Princess 
Colonna's  haughtiness,  so  evidently  natural  to  her,  alarmed 
Rodolphe,  who  would  find  enemies  in  Francesca's  father  and 
mother — at  least,  so  he  might  expect ;  and  the  secrecy  which 
Princess  Gandolphini  had  so  strictly  enjoined  on  him  now 
struck  him  as  a  wonderful  proof  of  affection.  By  not  choos- 
ing to  compromise  the  future,  had  she  not  confessed  that  she 
loved  him? 

At  last  nine  o'clock  struck  ;  Rodolphe  could  get  into  a  car- 


840  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

riage  and  say  with  an  emotion  that  is  very  intelligible,  "  To 
the  Villa  Jeanrenaud — to  Prince  Gandolphini's." 

At  last  he  saw  Francesca,  but  without  being  seen  by  her. 
The  Princess  was  standing  quite  near  the  piano.  Her  beauti- 
ful hair,  so  thick  and  long,  was  bound  with  a  golden  fillet. 
Her  face,  in  the  light  of  wax-candles,  had  the  brilliant  pallor 
peculiar  to  Italians,  and  which  looks  its  best  only  by  artificial 
light.  She  was  in  full  evening  dress,  showing  her  fascinating 
shoulders,  the  figure  of  a  girl  and  the  arms  of  an  antique 
statue.  Her  sublime  beauty  was  beyond  all  possible  rivalry, 
though  there  were  some  charming  English  and  Russian  ladies 
present,  the  prettiest  women  of  Geneva,  and  other  Italians, 
among  them  the  dazzling  and  illustrious  Princess  Varese,  and 
the  famous  singer  Tinti,  who  was  at  that  moment  engaged  in 
singing. 

Rodolphe,  leaning  against  the  door-post,  looked  at  the 
Princess,  turning  on  her  the  fixed,  tenacious,  attracting  gaze, 
charged  with  the  full,  insistent  will  which  is  concentrated  in 
the  feeling  called  desire,  and  thus  assumes  the  nature  of  a 
vehement  command.  Did  the  flame  of  that  gaze  reach  Fran- 
cesca ?  Was  Francesca  expecting  each  instant  to  see  Rodolphe  ? 
In  a  few  minutes  she  stole  a  glance  at  the  door,  as  though 
magnetized  by  this  current  of  love,  and  her  eyes,  without 
reserve,  looked  deep  into  Rodolphe's.  A  slight  thrill  quiv- 
ered through  that  superb  face  and  beautiful  body ;  the  shock 
to  her  spirit  reacted  :  Francesca  blushed  !  Rodolphe  felt  a 
whole  life  in  this  exchange  of  looks,  so  swift  that  it  can  only 
be  compared  to  a  lightning  flash.  But  to  what  could  his  hap- 
piness compare  ?  He  was  loved.  The  lofty  Princess,  in  the 
midst  of  her  world,  in  this  handsome  villa,  kept  the  pledge 
given  by  the  disguised  exile,  the  capricious  beauty  of  Berg- 
manns'  lodgings.  The  intoxication  of  such  a  moment  enslaves 
a  man  for  life  !  A  faint  smile,  refined  and  subtle,  candid  and 
triumphant,  curled  Princess  Gandolphini's  lips,  and  at  a 
moment  when  she  did  not  feel  herself  observed  she  looked  at 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  341 

Rodolphe  with  an  expression  which  seemed  to  ask  his  pardon 
for  having  deceived  him  as  to  her  rank. 

When  the  song  was  ended  Rodolphe  could  make  his  way 
to  the  Prince,  who  graciously  led  him  to  his  wife.  Rodolphe 
went  through  the  ceremonial  of  a  formal  introduction  to 
Princess  and  Prince  Colonna,  and  to  Francesca.  When  this 
was  over,  the  Princess  had  to  take  part  in  the  famous  quartette, 
Mi  manca  la  voce,  which  was  sung  by  her  with  Tinti,  with  the 
famous  tenor  Genovese,  and  with  a  well-known  Italian  prince 
then  in  exile,  whose  voice,  if  he  had  not  been  a  prince,  would 
have  made  him  one  of  the  princes  of  art. 

"Take  that  seat,"  said  Francesca  to  Rodolphe,  pointing 
to  her  own  chair.  ^^Oinief  I  think  there  is  some  mistake 
in  my  name ;  I  have  for  the  last  minute  been  Princess  Ro- 
dolphini." 

It  was  said  with  an  artless  grace  which  revived,  in  this 
avowal  hidden  beneath  a  jest,  the  happy  days  at  Gersau. 
Rodolphe  reveled  in  the  exquisite  sensation  of  listening  to 
the  voice  of  the  woman  he  adored,  while  sitting  so  close  to 
her  that  one  cheek  was  almost  touched  by  the  stuff  of  her 
dress  and  the  gauze  of  her  scarf.  But  when,  at  such  a  moment, 
Mi  manca  la  voceh  being  sung,  and  by  the  finest  voices  in 
Italy,  it  is  easy  to  understand  what  it  was  that  brought  the 
tears  to  Rodolphe' s  eyes. 

In  love,  as  perhaps  in  all  else,  there  are  certain  circum- 
stances, trivial  in  themselves,  but  the  outcome  of  a  thousand 
little  previous  incidents,  of  wliich  the  importance  is  immense,  as 
an  epitome  of  the  past  and  as  a  link  with  the  future.  A 
hundred  times  already  we  have  felt  the  preciousness  of  the 
one  we  love ;  but  a  trifle — the  perfect  touch  of  two  souls 
united  during  a  walk  perhaps  by  a  single  word,  by  some 
unlooked-for  proof  of  affection — will  carry  the  feeling  to  its 
supremest  pitch.  In  short,  to  express  this  truth  by  an  image 
which  has  been  pr-eeminently  successful  from  the  earliest  ages 
of  the  world,  there  are  in  a  long  chain  points  of  attachment 


842  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

needed  where  the  cohesion  is  stronger  than  in  the  intermediate 
loops  of  rings.  This  recognition  between  Rodolphe  and 
Francesca,  at  this  party,  in  the  face  of  the  world,  was  one  of 
those  intense  moments  which  join  the  future  to  the  past,  and 
rivet  a  real  attachment  more  deeply  in  the  heart.  It  was 
perhaps  of  these  incidental  rivets  that  Bossuet  spoke  when  he 
compared  to  them  the  rarity  of  happy  moments  in  our  lives — 
he  who  had  such  a  living  and  secret  experience  of  love. 

Next  to  the  pleasure  of  admiring  the  woman  we  love  comes 
that  of  seeing  her  admired  by  every  one  else.  Rodolphe  was 
enjoying  both  at  once.  Love  is  a  treasury  of  memories,  and 
though  Rodolphe's  was  already  full,  he  added  to  it  pearls  of 
great  price  ;  smiles  shed  aside  for  him  alone,  stolen  glances, 
tones  in  her  singing  which  Francesca  addressed  to  him  alone, 
but  which  made  Tinti  pale  with  jealousy,  they  were  so  much 
applauded.  All  his  strength  of  desire,  the  special  expression 
of  his  soul,  was  thrown  over  the  beautiful  Roman,  who  became 
unchangeably  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  all  his  thoughts 
and  actions.  Rodolphe  loved  as  every  woman  may  dream  of 
being  loved,  with  a  force,  a  constancy,  a  tenacity,  which 
made  Francesca  the  very  substance  of  his  heart ;  he  felt  her 
mingling  with  his  blood  as  purer  blood,  with  his  soul  as  a 
more  perfect  soul ;  she  would  henceforth  underlie  the  least 
efforts  of  his  life  as  the  golden  sand  of  the  Mediterranean  lies 
beneath  the  waves.  In  short,  Rodolphe's  lightest  aspiration 
was  now  a  living  hope. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  days,  Francesca  understood  this  bound- 
less love  ;  but  it  was  so  natural,  and  so  perfectly  shared  by 
her,  that  it  did  not  surprise  her.     She  was  worthy  of  it. 

"What  is  there  that  is  strange?  "  said  she  to  Rodolphe,  as 
.they  walked  on  the  garden  terrace,  when  he  had  been  betrayed 
into  one  of  those  outbursts  of  conceit  which  come  so  natur- 
ally to  Frenchmen  in  the  expression  of  their  feelings — "what 
is  extraordinary  in  the  fact  of  your  loving  a  young  and  beau- 
tiful woman,  artist  enough  to  be  able  to  earn  her  living  like 


ALBERT  SA  VAR ON.  343 

Tinti,  and  of  giving  you  some  of  the  pleasures  of  vanity? 
Wliat  lout  but  would  then  become  an  Amadis  ?  This  is  not 
in  question  between  you  and  me.  What  is  needed  is  that  we 
both  love  faithfully,  persistently;  at  a  distance  from  each 
other  for  years,  with  no  satisfaction  but  that  of  knowing  that 
we  are  loved." 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Rodolphe,  "  will  you  not  consider  my  fidelity 
as  devoid  of  all  merit  when  you  see  me  absorbed  in  the  efforts 
of  devouring  ambition  ?  Do  you  imagine  that  I  can  wish  to 
see  you  one  day  exchange  the  fine  name  of  Gandolphini  for 
that  of  a  man  who  is  a  nobody  ?  I  want  to  become  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  men  of  my  country,  to  be  rich,  great — that 
you  may  be  as  proud  of  my  name  as  of  your  own  name  of 
Colonna." 

"  I  should  be  grieved  to  see  you  without  such  sentiments  in 
your  heart,"  she  replied,  with  a  bewitching  smile.  "But  do  not 
wear  yourself  out  too  soon  in  your  ambitious  labors.  Remain 
young.     They  say  that  politics  soon  make  a  man  old." 

One  of  the  rarest  gifts  in  women  is  a  certain  gaiety  which 
does  not  detract  from  tenderness.  This  combination  of  deep 
feeling  with  the  lightness  of  youth  added  an  enchanting  grace 
at  this  moment  to  Francesca's  charms.  This  is  the  key  to  her 
character ;  she  laughs  and  she  is  touched ;  she  becomes  enthu- 
siastic, and  returns  to  arch  raillery  with  a  readiness,  a  facility, 
which  make  her  the  charming  and  exquisite  creature  she  is, 
and  for  which  her  reputation  is  known  outside  Italy.  Under 
the  graces  of  a  woman  she  conceals  vast  learning,  thanks  to 
the  excessively  monotonous  and  almost  monastic  life  she  led 
in  the  castle  of  the  old  Colonnas. 

This  rich  heiress  was  at  first  intended  for  the  cloister,  being 
the  fourth  child  of  Prince  and  Princess  Colonna;  but  the 
death  of  her  two  brothers,  and  of  her  elder  sister,  suddenly 
brought  her  out  of  her  retirement,  and  made  her  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  matches  in  the  papal  states.  Her  elder  sister 
had  been  betrothed  to  Prince  Gandolphini,  one  of  the  richest 


344  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

landowners  in  Sicily ;  and  Francesca  was  married  to  him 
instead,  so  that  nothing  might  be  changed  in  the  position  of 
the  family.  The  Colonnas  and  Gandolphinis  had  always 
intermarried. 

From  the  age  of  nine  till  she  was  sixteen,  Francesca,  under 
the  direction  of  a  cardinal  of  the  family,  had  read  all  through 
the  library  of  the  Colonnas,  to  make  weight  against  her  ardent 
imagination  by  studying  science,  art,  and  letters.  But  in  these 
studies  she  acquired  the  taste  for  independence  and  liberal 
ideas,  which  threw  her,  with  her  husband,  into  the  ranks  of 
the  revolution.  Rodolphe  had  not  yet  learned  that,  besides 
five  living  languages,  Francesca  knew  Greek,  Latin,  and 
Hebrew.  The  charming  creature  perfectly  understood  that, 
for  a  woman,  the  first  condition  of  being  learned  is  to  keep 
it  deeply  hidden. 

Rodolphe  spent  the  whole  winter  at  Geneva.  This  winter 
passed  like  a  day.  When  spring  returned,  notwithstanding 
the  infinite  delights  of  the  society  of  a  clever  woman, 
wonderfully  well  informed,  young  and  lovely,  the  lover  went 
through  cruel  sufferings,  endured  indeed  with  courage,  but 
which  were  sometimes  legible  in  his  countenance,  and  be- 
trayed themselves  in  his  manners  or  speech,  perhaps  because 
he  believed  that  Francesca  shared  them.  Now  and  again  it 
annoyed  him  to  admire  her  calmness.  Like  an  English- 
woman, she  seemed  to  pride  herself  on  expressing  nothing 
in  her  face ;  its  serenity  defied  love ;  he  longed  to  see  her 
agitated  ;  he  accused  her  of  having  no  feeling,  for  he  believed 
in  the  tradition  which  ascribes  to  Italian  women  a  feverish 
excitability. 

"I  am  a  Roman!"  Francesca  gravely  replied  one  day 
when  she  took  quite  seriously  some  banter  on  this  subject  from 
Rodolphe. 

There  was  a  depth  of  tone  in  her  reply  wliich  gave  it  the 
appearance  of  scathing  irony,  and  which  set  Rodolphe's 
pulses  throbbing.     The  month  of  May  spread  before  them  the 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  345 

treasures  of  her  fresh  verdure;  the  sun  was  sometimes  as 
powerful  as  at  midsummer.  The  two  lovers  happened  to  be 
at  a  part  of  the  terrace  where  the  rock  rises  abruptly  from 
the  lake,  and  where  leaning  over  the  stone  parapet  that 
crowns  the  wall  above  a  flight  of  steps  leading  down  to  a 
landing-stage.  From  the  neighboring  villa,  where  there  is  a 
similar  stairway,  a  boat  presently  shot  out  like  a  swan,  its  flag 
flaming,  its  crimson  awning  spread  over  a  lovely  woman  com- 
fortably reclining  on  red  cushions,  her  hair  wreathed  with  real 
flowers  ;  the  boatman  was  a  young  man  dressed  like  a  sailor, 
and  rowing  with  all  the  more  grace  because  he  was  under  the 
lady's  eye. 

''They  are  happy!  "  exclaimed  Rodolphe,  with  bitter  em- 
phasis. "  Claire  de  Bourgogne,  the  last  survivor  of  the  only 
house  which  could  ever  vie  with  the  royal  family  of  France " 

"  Oh  !  of  a  bastard  branch,  and  that  a  female  line." 

"At  any  rate,  she  is  Vicomtesse  de  Beauseant;  and  she  did 
not " 

"  Did  not  hesitate,  you  would  say,  to  bury  herself  here 
with  Monsieur  Gaston  de  Nueil,"  replied  the  daughter  of  the 
Colonnas.  "  She  is  only  a  Frenchwoman  ;  I  am  an  Italian, 
my  dear  sir  !  " 

Francesca  turned  away  from  the  parapet,  leaving  Rodolphe, 
and  went  to  the  farther  end  of  the  terrace,  whence  there  is  a 
wide  prospect  of  the  lake.  Watching  her  as  she  slowly  walked 
away,  Rodolphe  suspected  that  he  had  wounded  her  soul,  at 
once  so  simple  and  so  wise,  so  proud  and  so  humble.  It 
turned  him  cold  ;  he  followed  Francesca,  who  signed  to  him 
to  leave  her  to  herself.  But  he  did  not  heed  the  warning, 
and  detected  her  wiping  away  her  tears.  Tears  !  in  so  strong 
a  nature. 

"  Francesca,"  said  he,  taking  her  hand,  "  is  there  a  single 
regret  in  your  heart  ?  " 

She  was  silent,  disengaged  her  hand  which  held  her  em- 
broidered handkerchief,  and  again  dried  her  eyes. 


346  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

**  Forgive  me  !  "  he  said.  And  with  a  rush,  he  kissed  her 
eyes  to  wipe  away  the  tears. 

Francesca  did  not  seem  aware  of  his  passionate  impulse,  she 
was  so  violently  agitated.  Rodolphe,  thinking  she  consented, 
grew  bolder;  he  put  his  arm  round  her,  clasped  her  to  his 
heart,  and  snatched  a  kiss.  But  she  freed  herself  by  a  dig- 
nified movement  of  offended  modesty,  and,  standing  a  yard 
off,  she  looked  at  him  without  anger,  but  with  firm  deter- 
mination. 

"  Go  this  evening,"  she  said.  "  We  meet  no  more  till  we 
meet  at  Naples." 

The  order  was  stern,  but  it  was  obeyed,  for  it  was  Fran- 
cesea's  will.. 

On  his  return  to  Paris,  Rodolphe  found  in  his  rooms  a  por- 
trait of  Princess  Gandolphini  painted  by  Schinner,  as  Schinner 
can  paint.  The  artist  had  passed  through  Geneva  on  his  way 
to  Italy.  As  he  had  positively  refused  to  paint  the  portraits 
of  several  women,  Rodolphe  did  not  believe  that  the  Prince, 
anxious  as  he  was  for  a  portrait  of  his  wife,  would  be  able  to 
conquer  the  great  painter's  objections ;  but  Francesca,  no 
doubt,  had  bewitched  him,  and  obtained  from  him — which 
was  almost  a  miracle — an  original  portrait  for  Rodolphe,  and 
a  duplicate  for  Emilio.  She  told  him  this  in  a  charming  and 
delightful  letter,  in  which  the  mind  indemnified  itself  for  the 
reserve  required  by  the  worship  of  the  proprieties.  The  lover 
replied.  Thus  began,  never  to  cease,  a  regular  correspond- 
ence between  Rodolphe  and  Francesca,  and  which  was  the 
only  indulgence  that  they  allowed  themselves  through  the 
many  years  following. 

Rodolphe,  possessed  by  an  ambition  sanctified  by  his  love, 
set  to  work.  First  he  longed  to  make  his  fortune,  and  risked 
his  all  in  an  undertaking  to  which  he  devoted  all  his  faculties 
as  well  as  his  capital  ;  but  he,  an  inexperienced  youth,  had  to 
contend  against  duplicity,  which  won  the  day.     Thus  three 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  347 

years  were  lost  in  a  vast  enterprise,  three  years  of  struggling 
and  courage. 

The  Villele  ministry  fell  just  when  Rodolphe  was  ruined. 
The  valiant  lover  thought  he  would  seek  in  politics  what  com- 
mercial industry  had  refused  him  ;  but  before  braving  the 
storms  of  this  career,  he  went,  all  wounded  and  sick  at  heart, 
to  have  his  bruises  healed  and  his  courage  revived  at  Naples, 
where  the  Prince  and  Princess  had  been  reinstated  in  their 
place  and  rights  on  the  King's  accession.  This,  in  the  midst 
of  his  warfare,  was  a  respite  full  of  delights  ;  he  spent  three 
months  at  the  Villa  Gandolphini,  rocked  in  hope. 

Rodolphe  then  began  again  to  construct  his  fortune.  His 
talents  were  already  known  ;  he  was  about  to  attain  the  de- 
sires of  his  ambitions ;  a  high  position  was  promised  him  as 
the  reward  of  his  zeal,  his  devotion,  and  his  past  services,  when 
the  storm  of  July,  1830,  broke,  and  again  his  bark  was  swamped. 

She,  and  God  !  These  are  the  only  witnesses  of  the  brave 
efforts,  the  daring  attempts  of  a  young  man  gifted  with  fine 
qualities,  but  to  whom,  so  far,  the  protection  of  luck — the  god 
of  fools — has  been  denied.  And  this  indefatigable  wrestler, 
upheld  by  love,  comes  back  to  fresh  struggles,  lighted  on  his 
way  by  an  always  friendly  eye,  an  ever-faithful  heart. 

Lovers  !     Pray  for  him  ! 


As  she  finished  this  narrative,  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville's 
cheeks  were  on  fire  ;  there  was  a  fever  in  her  blood.  She  was 
crying — but  with  rage.  This  little  novel,  inspired  by  the 
literary  style  then  in  fashion,  was  the  first  reading  of  the  kind 
that  Rosalie  had  ever  had  the  chance  of  devouring.  Love 
was  depicted  in  it,  if  not  by  a  master-hand,  at  any  rate  by  a 
man  who  seemed  to  give  his  own  impressions ;  and  truth, 
even  if  unskilled,  could  not  fail  to  touch  a  virgin  soul.  Here 
lay  the  secret  of  Rosalie's  terrible  agitation,  of  her  fever  and 
her  tears ;  she  was  jealous  of  Francesca  Colonna. 


348  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

She  never  for  an  instant  doubted  the  sincerity  of  this 
poetical  flight ;  Albert  had  taken  pleasure  in  telling  the  story 
of  his  passion,  while  changing  the  names  of  persons  and  per- 
haps of  places.  Rosalie  was  possessed  by  infernal  curiosity. 
What  woman  but  would,  like  her,  have  wanted  to  know  her 
rival's  name — for  she  too  loved  !  As  she  read  these  pages,  to 
her  really  contagious,  she  had  said  solemnly  to  herself,  "  I 
love  him  !  "  She  loved  Albert,  and  felt  in  her  heart  a  gnaw- 
ing desire  to  fight  for  him,  to  snatch  him  from  this  unknown 
rival.  She  reflected  that  she  knew  nothing  of  music,  and 
that  she  was  not  beautiful. 

**  He  will  never  love  me  !  "  thought  she. 

This  conclusion  aggravated  her  anxiety  to  know  whether 
she  might  not  be  mistaken,  whether  Albert  really  loved  an 
Italian  princess,  and  was  loved  by  her.  In  the  course  of  this 
fateful  night,  the  power  of  swift  decision,  which  had  charac- 
terized the  famous  Watteville,  was  fully  developed  in  his 
descendant.  She  devised  those  whimsical  schemes,  round 
which  hovers  the  imagination  of  most  young  girls  when,  in 
the  solitude  to  which  some  injudicious  mothers  confine  them, 
they  are  aroused  by  some  tremendous  event  which  the  system 
of  repression  to  which  they  are  subjected  could  neither  foresee 
nor  prevent.  She  dreamed  of  descending  by  a  ladder  from 
the  kiosk  into  the  garden  of  the  house  occupied  by  Albert ; 
of  taking  advantage  of  the  lawyer  being  asleep  to  look 
through  the  window  into  his  private  room.  She  thought  of 
writing  to  him,  or  of  bursting  the  fetters  of  Besanq;on  society 
by  introducing  Albert  to  the  drawing-room  of  the  Hotel  de 
Rupt.  This  enterprise,  which  to  the  Abbe  de  Grancey  even 
would  have  seemed  the  climax  of  the  impossible,  was  a  mere 
passing  thought. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  she  to  herself,  "  my  father  has  a  dispute  pend- 
ing as  to  his  land  at  les  Rouxey.  I  will  go  there  !  If  there 
is  no  lawsuit,  I  will  manage  to  make  one,  and  he  shall  come 
into  our  drawing-room  !  "  she  cried,  as  she  sprang  out  of  bed 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  3^ 

and  to  the  window  to  look  at  the  fascinating  gleam  which 
shone  through  Albert's  lights.  The  clock  struck  one ;  he  was 
still  asleep. 

"  I  shall  see  him  when  he  gets  up  ;  perhaps  he  will  come  to 
his  window." 

At  this  instant  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  was  witness  to 
an  incident  which  promised  to  place  in  her  power  the  means 
of  knowing  Albert's  secrets.  By  the  light  of  the  moon  she 
saw  a  pair  of  arms  stretched  out  from  the  kiosk  to  help  Jerome, 
Albert's  servant,  to  get  across  the  coping  of  the  wall  and  step 
into  the  little  building.  In  Jerome's  accomplice  Rosalie  at 
once  recognized  Mariette  the  lady's  maid. 

"  Mariette  and  Jerome  !  "  said  she  to  herself.  "  Mariette, 
such  an  ugly  girl !  Certainly  they  must  be  ashamed  of  them- 
selves." 

Though  Mariette  was  horribly  ugly  and  six-and-thirty,  she 
had  inherited  several  plots  of  land.  She  had  been  seventeen 
years  with  Madame  de  Watteville,  who  valued  her  highly  for 
her  bigotry,  her  honesty,  and  long  service,  and  she  had  no 
doubt  saved  money  and  invested  her  wages  and  perquisites. 
Hence,  earning  about  ten  louis  a  year,  she  probably  had  by 
this  time,  including  compound  interest  and  her  little  inherit- 
ance, not  less  than  ten  thousand  francs. 

In  Jerome's  eyes  ten  thousand  francs  could  alter  the  laws  of 
optics ;  he  saw  in  Mariette  a  neat  figure ;  he  did  not  perceive 
the  pits  and  seams  which  virulent  smallpox  had  left  on  her 
flat,  parched  face ;  to  him  the  crooked  mouth  was  straight  j 
and  ever  since  Savaron,  by  taking  him  into  his  service,  had 
brought  him  so  near  to  the  Wattevilles'  house,  he  had  laid 
siege  systematically  to  the  maid,  who  was  as  prim  and  sancti- 
monious as  her  mistress,  and  who,  like  every  ugly  old  maid, 
was  far  more  exacting  than  the  handsomest. 

If  the  night-scene  in  the  kiosk  is  thus  fully  accounted  for  to 
all  perspicacious  readers,  it  was  not  so  to  Rosalie,  though  she 
derived  from  it  the  most  dangerous  lesson  that  can  be  given. 


350  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

that  of  a  bad  example.  A  mother  brings  her  daughter  up 
strictly,  keeps  her  under  her  wing  for  seventeen  years,  and 
then,  in  one  hour,  a  servant-girl  destroys  the  long  and  painful 
work,  sometimes  by  a  word,  often  indeed  by  a  gesture  ! 
Rosalie  got  into  bed  again,  not  without  considering  how  she 
might  take  advantage  of  her  discovery. 

Next  morning,  as  she  went  to  mass  accompanied  by  Mariette 
— her  mother  was  not  well — Rosalie  took  the  maid's  arm, 
which  surprised  the  country  wench  not  a  little. 

"Mariette,"  said  she,  "is  Jerome  in  his  master's  confi- 
dence? " 

"I  do  not  know,  mademoiselle." 

"Do  not  play  the  innocent  with  me,"  said  Mademoiselle 
de  Watteville  drily,  "  You  let  him  kiss  you  last  night  under 
the  kiosk ;  I  no  longer  wonder  that  you  so  warmly  approved 
of  my  mother's  ideas  for  the  improvements  she  planned." 

Rosalie  could  feel  how  Mariette  was  trembling  by  the  shak- 
ing of  her  arm. 

"  I  wish  you  no  ill,"  Rosalie  went  on.  "Be  quite  easy; 
I  shall  not  say  a  word  to  my  mother,  and  you  can  meet 
Jerdme  as  often  as  you  please." 

"But,  mademoiselle,"  replied  Mariette,  "it  is  perfectly 
respectable;  Jerome  honestly  means  to  marry  me " 

"  But  then,"  said  Rosalie,  "  why  meet  at  night  ?  " 

Mariette  was  completely  dumfounded,  and  could  make  no 
reply. 

"  Listen,  Mariette ;  I  am  in  love  too  !  In  secret  and  with- 
out any  return.  I  am,  after  all,  my  father's  and  mother's 
only  child.  You  have  more  to  hope  for  from  me  than  from 
any  one  else  in  the  world " 

"  Certainly,  mademoiselle,  and  you  may  count  on  us  for  life 
or  death,"  exclaimed  Mariette,  rejoiced  at  the  unexpected 
turn  of  affairs. 

"  In  the  first  place,  silence  for  silence,"  said  Rosalie.  "I 
will  not  marry  Monsieur  de  Soulas;  but  one  thing  I  will  have, 


ALBERT  S AVAR  ON.  35I 

and  must  have  ;  my  help  and  favor  are  yours  on  one  condition 
only." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  I  must  see  the  letters  which  Monsieur  Savaron  sends  to 
the  post  by  Jer6me." 

"  But  what  for?  "  said  Mariette  in  alarm. 

"  Oh  !  merely  to  read  them,  and  you  yourself  shall  post 
them  afterwards.     It  will  cause  a  little  delay;  that  is  all." 

At  this  moment  they  went  into  church,  and  each  of  them, 
instead  of  reading  the  order  of  mass,  fell  into  her  own  train 
of  thought. 

"  Dear,  dear,  how  many  sins  are  there  in  all  that?  "  thought 
Mariette. 

Rosalie,  whose  soul,  brain,  and  heart  were  completely 
upset  by  reading  the  story,  by  this  time  regarded  it  as 
history,  written  for  her  rival.  By  dint  of  thinking  of  noth- 
ing else,  like  a  child,  she  ended  by  believing  that  the 
Eastern  Review  was  no  doubt  forwarded  to  Albert's  lady- 
love. 

"Oh  !  "  said  she  to  herself,  her  head  buried  in  her  hands 
in  the  attitude  of  a  person  lost  in  prayer ;  "  Oh  !  how  can  I 
get  my  father  to  look  through  the  list  of  people  to  whom  the 
Review  is  sent  ?  ' ' 

After  breakfast  she  took  a  turn  in  the  garden  with  her 
father,  coaxing  and  cajoling  him,  and  brought  him  to  the 
kiosk. 

"  Do  you  suppose,  my  dear  little  papa,  that  our  Review  is 
ever  read  abroad  ?  ' ' 

"It  is  but  just  started " 

"  Well,  I  will  wager  that  it  is." 

"It  is  hardly  possible." 

"  Just  go  and  find  out,  and  note  the  names  of  any  sub- 
scribers out  of  France." 

Two  hours  later  Monsieur  de  Watteville  said  to  his 
daughter — 


362  ALBERT  SA  VARON. 

"I  was  right;  there  is  not  one  foreign  subscriber  as  yet. 
They  hope  to  get  some  at  Neufchatel,  at  Berne,  and  at 
Geneva.  One  copy  is,  in  fact,  sent  to  Italy,  but  it  is  not 
paid  for — to  a  Milanese  lady  at  her  country  house  at  Bel- 
girate,  on  Lago  Maggiore." 

"  What  is  her  name  ?  " 

"  The  Duchesse  d'Argaiolo." 

"  Do  you  know  her,  papa  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  about  her.  She  was  by  birth  a  Princess 
Soderini,  a  Florentine,  a  very  great  lady,  and  quite  as  rich  as 
her  husband,  who  has  one  of  the  largest  fortunes  in  Lom- 
bardy.  Their  villa  on  the  Lago  Maggiore  is  one  of  the  sights 
of  Italy." 

Two  days  after,  Mariette  placed  the  following  letter  in 
Mademoiselle  de  Watteville's  hands : 

Albert  Savaron  to  Leopold  Hannequin. 

"Yes,  'tis  so,  my  dear  friend;  I  am  at  Besan^on,  while 
you  thought  I  was  traveling.  I  would  not  tell  you  anything 
till  success  should  begin,  and  now  it  is  dawning.  Yes,  my 
dear  Leopold,  after  so  many  abortive  undertakings,  over 
which  I  have  shed  the  best  of  my  blood,  have  wasted  so  many 
efforts,  spent  so  much  courage,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
do  as  you  have  done — to  start  on  a  beaten  path,  on  the  high- 
road, as  the  longest  but  the  safest.  I  can  see  you  jump  with 
surprise  in  your  lawyer's  chair  ! 

"  But  do  not  suppose  that  anything  is  changed  in  my  per- 
sonal life,  of  which  you  alone  in  the  world  know  the  secret, 
and  that  under  the  reservations  she  insists  on.  I  did  not  tell 
you,  my  friend ;  but  I  was  horribly  weary  of  Paris.  The 
outcome  of  the  first  enterprise,  on  which  I  had  founded  all 
my  hopes,  and  which  came  to  a  bad  end  in  consequence  of 
the  utter  rascality  of  my  two  partners,  who  combined  to  cheat 
and  fleece  me — me,  though  everything  was  done  by  my  energy 


ALBERT  S AVAR  ON.  353 

— made  me  give  up  the  pursuit  of  a  fortune  after  the  loss  of 

three  years  of  my  life.  One  of  these  years  was  spent  in  the 
law  courts,  and  perhaps  I  should  have  come  worse  out  of  the 
scrape  if  I  had  not  been  made  to  study  law  when  I  was 
twenty. 

"I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  into  politics  solely,  to  the 
end  that  I  may  some  day  find  my  name  in  a  list  for  promo- 
tion to  the  Senate  under  the  title  of  Comte  Albert  Savaron 
de  Savarus,  and  so  revive  in  France  a  good  name  now  extinct 
in  Belgium — though  indeed  I  am  neither  legitimate  nor  legit- 
imized." 

'*Ah!  I  knew  it!  He  is  of  noble  birth !"  exclaimed 
Rosalie,  dropping  the  letter. 

"  You  know  how  conscientiously  I  studied,  how  faithful 
and  useful  I  was  as  an  obscure  journalist,  and  how  excellent 
a  secretary  to  the  statesman  who,  on  his  part,  was  true  to  me 
in  1829.  Flung  to  the  depths  once  more  by  the  revolution 
of  July,  just  when  my  name  was  becoming  known,  at  the  very 
moment  when,  as  master  of  appeals,  I  was  about  to  find  my 
place  as  a  necessary  wheel  in  the  political  machine,  I  com- 
mitted the  blunder  of  remaining  faithful  to  the  fallen,  and 
fighting  for  them,  without  them.  Oh  !  why  was  I  but  three- 
and-thirty,  and  why  did  I  not  apply  to  you  to  make  me 
eligible?  I  concealed  from  you  all  my  devotedness  and  my 
dangers.  What  would  you  have  ?  I  was  full  of  faith.  We 
should  not  have  agreed. 

*'  Ten  months  ago,  when  you  saw  me  so  gay  and  contented, 
writing  my  political  articles,  I  was  in  despair ;  I  foresaw  my 
fate,  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven,  with  two  thousand  francs  for 
my  whole  fortune,  without  the  smallest  fame,  just  having 
failed  in  a  noble  undertaking,  the  founding,  namely,  of  a 
daily  paper,  answering  only  to  a  need  of  the  future  instead  of 
appealing  to  the  passions  of  the  moment.  I  did  not  know 
which  way  to  turn,  and  I  felt  my  own  value !  I  wandered 
about,  gloomy  and  hurt,  through  the  lonely  places  of  Paris— 
23 


864  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

Paris  which  had  slipped  through  my  fingers — thinking  of  my 
crushed  ambitions,  but  never  giving  them  up.  Oh,  what 
frantic  letters  I  wrote  at  that  time  to  her,  my  second  con- 
science, my  other  self!  Sometimes,  I  would  say  to  myself, 
'  Why  did  I  sketch  so  vast  a  programme  of  life  ?  Why 
demand  everything?  Why  not  wait  for  happiness  while 
devoting  myself  to  some  mechanical  employment,' 

"  I  then  looked  about  me  for  some  modest  appointment  by 
which  I  might  live.  I  was  about  to  get  the  editorship  of  a 
paper  under  a  manager  who  did  not  know  much  about  it,  a 
man  of  wealth  and  ambition,  when  I  took  fright.  *  Would 
she  ever  accept  as  her  husband  a  man  who  had  stooped  so 
low  ?  '  I  wondered. 

"  This  reflection  made  me  two-and-twenty  again.  But,  oh, 
my  dear  Leopold,  how  the  soul  is  worn  by  these  perplexities ! 
What  must  not  caged  eagles  suffer,  and  imprisoned  lions  ! 
They  suffer  what  Napoleon  suffered,  not  at  Saint  Helena,  but 
on  the  Quay  of  the  Tuileries,  on  the  loth  of  August,  when 
he  saw  Louis  XVL  defending  himself  so  badly  while  he  could 
have  quelled  the  insurrection  ;  as  he  actually  did,  on  the  same 
spot,  a  little  later,  in  Vendemiaire.  Well,  my  life  has  been 
a  torment  of  that  kind,  extending  over  four  years.  How 
many  a  speech  to  the  Chamber  have  I  not  delivered  in  the 
deserted  alleys  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne !  These  wasted 
harangues  have  at  any  rate  sharpened  my  tongue  and  accus- 
tomed my  mind  to  formulate  its  ideas  in  words.  And  while 
I  was  undergoing  this  secret  torture,  you  were  getting  married, 
you  had  paid  for  your  business,  you  were  made  law-clerk  to 
the  mayor  of  your  district,  after  gaining  the  cross  for  a  wound 
at  Saint-Merri. 

"  Now,  listen.  When  I  was  a  small  boy  and  tortured  cock- 
chafers, the  poor  insects  had  one  form  of  struggle  which  used 
almost  to  put  me  in  a  fever.  It  was  when  I  saw  them  making 
repeated  eff"orts  to  fly  but  without  getting  away,  though  they 
could  spread  their  wings.     We  used  to  say,  *  They  are  mark- 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  865 

ing  time.'  Now,  was  this  sympathy  ?  Was  it  a  vision  of  my 
own  future  ?  Oh  !  to  spread  my  wings  and  yet  be  unable  to 
fly !  That  has  been  my  predicament  since  that  fine  under- 
taking by  which  I  was  disgusted,  but  which  has  now  made 
four  families  rich. 

"  At  last,  seven  months  ago,  I  determined  to  make  myself 
a  name  at  the  Paris  bar,  seeing  how  many  vacancies  had  been 
left  by  the  promotion  of  several  lawyers  to  eminent  positions. 
But  when  I  remembered  the  rivalry  I  had  seen  among  men  of 
the  press,  and  how  difficult  it  is  to  achieve  anything  of  any 
kind  in  Paris,  the  arena  where  so  many  champions  meet,  I 
came  to  a  determination  painful  to  myself,  but  certain  in  its 
results,  and  perhaps  quicker  than  any  other.  In  the  course  of 
our  conversations  you  had  given  me  a  picture  of  the  society 
of  Besan^on,  of  the  impossibility  for  a  stranger  to  get  on 
there,  to  produce  the  smallest  effect,  to  get  into  society,  or  to 
succeed  in  any  way  whatever.  It  was  there  that  I  determined 
to  set  up  my  flag,  thinking,  and  rightly,  that  I  should  meet 
with  no  opposition,  but  find  myself  alone  to  canvass  for  the 
election.  The  people  of  the  Comte  will  not  meet  the  out- 
sider ?  The  outsider  will  not  meet  them  !  They  refuse  to 
admit  him  to  their  drawing-rooms,  he  will  never  go  there  ! 
He  never  shows  himself  anywhere,  not  even  in  the  streets ! 
But  there  is  one  class  that  elects  the  deputies — the  commercial 
class.  I  am  going  especially  to  study  commercial  questions, 
with  which  I  am  already  familiar  ;  I  will  gain  their  lawsuits, 
I  will  effect  compromises,  I  will  be  the  greatest  pleader  in 
Besangon.  By-and-by  I  will  start  a  Review,  in  which  I  will 
defend  the  interests  of  the  country,  will  create  them,  or  pre- 
serve them,  or  resuscitate  them.  When  I  shall  have  won  a 
sufficient  number  of  votes,  my  name  will  come  out  of  the  urn. 
For  a  long  time  the  unknown  barrister  will  be  treated  with 
contempt,  but  some  circumstance  will  arise  to  bring  him  to 
the  front — some  unpaid  defense,  or  a  case  which  no  other 
pleader  will  undertake. 


366  ALBER T  SA  VARON. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Leopold,  I  packed  up  my  books  in  eleven 
cases,  I  bought  such  law-books  as  might  prove  useful,  and  I 
sent  everything  off,  furniture  and  all,  by  carrier  to  Besan^on. 
I  collected  my  diplomas,  and  I  went  to  bid  you  good-bye. 
The  mail-coach  dropped  me  at  Besangon,  where,  in  three 
days'  time,  I  chose  a  little  set  of  rooms  looking  out  over  some 
gardens.  I  sumptuously  arranged  the  mysterious  private  room 
where  I  spend  my  nights  and  days,  and  where  the  portrait  of 
my  divinity  reigns — of  her  to  whom  my  life  is  dedicated,  who 
fills  it  wholly,  who  is  the  mainspring  of  my  efforts,  the  secret 
of  my  courage,  the  cause  of  my  talents.  Then,  as  soon  as  the 
furniture  and  books  had  come,  I  engaged  an  intelligent  man- 
servant, and  there  I  sat  for  five  months  like  a  hibernating 
marmot. 

"  My  name  had,  however,  been  entered  on  the  list  of  law- 
yers in  the  town.  At  last  I  was  called  one  day  to  defend  an 
unhappy  wretch  at  the  assizes,  no  doubt  in  order  to  hear  me 
speak  for  once !  One  of  the  most  influential  merchants  of 
Besangon  was  on  the  jury ;  he  had  a  difficult  task  to  fulfill ;  I 
did  my  utmost  for  the  man,  and  my  success  was  absolute  and 
complete.  My  client  was  innocent ;  I  very  dramatically  se- 
cured the  arrest  of  the  real  criminals,  who  had  come  forward 
as  witnesses.  In  short,  the  court  and  the  public  were  united 
in  their  admiration.  I  managed  to  save  the  examining  magis- 
trate's pride  by  pointing  out  the  impossibility  of  detecting  a 
plot  so  skillfully  planned. 

"Then  I  had  to  fight  a  case  for  my  merchant,  and  won  his 
suit.  The  Cathedral  Chapter  next  chose  me  to  defend  a  tre- 
mendous action  against  the  town,  which  had  been  going  on 
for  four  years  ;  I  won  that.  Thus  after  three  trials,  I  had  be- 
come the  most  famous  advocate  of  Franche-Comte. 

**  But  I  bury  my  life  in  the  deepest  mystery,  and  so  hide 
my  aims.  I  have  adopted  habits  which  prevent  my  accepting 
any  invitations.  I  am  only  to  be  consulted  between  six  and 
eight  in  the  morning ;  I  go  to  bed  after  my  dinner,  and  work 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  857 

at  night.  The  vicar-general,  a  man  of  parts,  and  very  influen- 
tial, who  placed  the  chapter's  case  in  my  hands  after  they 
had  lost  it  in  the  lower  court,  of  course  professed  their  grati- 
tude. '  Monsieur,'  said  I,  '  I  will  win  your  suit,  but  I  want 
no  fee ;  I  want  more  '  (start  of  alarm  on  the  abba's  part). 
'  You  must  know  that  I  am  a  great  loser  by  putting  myself 
forward  in  antagonism  to  the  town.  I  came  here  only  to 
leave  the  place  as  deputy.  I  mean  to  engage  only  in  com- 
mercial cases,  because  commercial  men  return  the  members ; 
they  will  distrust  me  if  I  defend  "the  priests" — for  to  them 
you  are  simply  the  priests.  If  I  undertake  your  defense,  it  is 
because  I  was,  in  1828,  private  secretary  to  such  a  minister  * 
(again  a  start  of  surprise  on  the  part  of  my  abbe),  'and  mas- 
ter of  appeals,  under  the  name  of  Albert  de  Savarus  '  (an- 
other start).  *  I  have  remained  faithful  to  monarchical  opin- 
ions ;  but,  as  you  have  not  the  majority  of  votes  in  Besan^on, 
I  must  gain  votes  among  the  citizens.  So  the  fee  I  ask  of  you 
is  the  votes  you  may  be  able  secretly  to  secure  for  me  at  the 
opportune  moment.  Let  us  each  keep  our  own  counsel,  and 
I  will  defend,  for  nothing,  every  case  to  which  a  priest  of  this 
diocese  may  be  a  party.  Not  a  word  about  my  previous  life, 
and  we  will  be  true  to  each  other.* 

"  When  he  came  to  thank  me  afterwards,  he  gave  me  a 
note  for  five  hundred  francs,  and  said  in  my  ear,  '  The  votes 
are  a  bargain  all  the  same.'  I  have  in  the  course  of  five 
interviews  made  a  friend,  I  think,  of  this  vicar-general. 

"  Now  I  am  overwhelmed  with  business,  and  I  understand 
no  cases  but  those  brought  me  by  merchants,  saying  that  com- 
mercial questions  are  my  specialty.  This  line  of  conduct 
attaches  business  men  to  me,  and  allows  me  to  make  friends 
with  influential  persons.  So  all  goes  well.  Within  a  few 
months  I  shall  have  found  a  house  to  purchase  in  Besangon, 
so  as  to  secure  a  qualification.  I  count  on  your  lending  me 
the  necessary  capital  for  this  investment.  If  I  should  die,  if 
I  should  fail,  the  loss  would  be  too  small  to  be  any  considera- 


858  ALBERT  S AVAR  ON. 

tion  between  you  and  me.  You  will  get  the  interest  out  of 
the  rental,  and  I  shall  take  good  care  to  lookout  for  some- 
thing cheap,  so  that  you  may  lose  nothing  by  this  mortgage, 
which  is  indispensable. 

**  Oh  !  my  dear  Leopold,  no  gambler  with  the  last  remains 
of  his  fortune  in  his  pocket,  bent  on  staking  it  at  the  Cercle 
des  Etrangers  for  the  last  time  one  night,  when  he  must  come 
away  rich  or  ruined,  ever  felt  such  a  perpetual  ringing  in  his 
ears,  such  a  nervous  moisture  on  his  palms,  such  a  fevered 
tumult  in  his  brain,  such  inward  qualms  in  his  body  as  I  go 
through  every  day  now  that  I  am  playing  my  last  card  in  the 
game  of  ambition.  Alas !  my  dear  and  only  friend,  for 
nearly  ten  years  now  have  I  been  struggling.  This  battle 
with  men  and  things,  in  which  I  have  unceasingly  poured  out 
my  strength  and  energy,  and  so  constantly  worn  the  springs 
of  desire,  has,  so  to  speak,  undermined  my  vitality.  With 
all  the  appearance  of  a  strong  man  of  good  health,  I  feel 
myself  a  wreck.  Every  day  carries  with  it  a  shred  of  my  in- 
most life.  At  every  fresh  effort  I  feel  that  I  should  never  be 
able  to  begin  again.  I  have  no  power,  no  vigor  left  but  for 
happiness ;  and  if  it  should  never  come  to  crown  my  head 
with  roses,  the  me  that  is  really  me  would  cease  to  exist,  I 
should  be  a  ruined  thing.  I  should  wish  for  nothing  more  in 
the  world.  I  should  want  to  cease  from  living.  You  know 
that  power  and  fame,  the  vast  moral  empire  that  I  crave,  is 
but  secondary  ;  it  is  to  me  only  a  means  to  happiness,  the 
pedestal  for  my  idol. 

"  To  reach  the  goal  and  die,  like  the  runner  of  antiquity ! 
To  see  fortune  and  death  stand  on  the  threshold  hand  in 
hand  !  To  win  the  beloved  woman  just  when  love  is  extinct ! 
To  lose  the  faculty  of  enjoyment  after  earning  the  right  to  be 
happy  !     Of  how  many  men  has  this  been  the  fate  ! 

"  But  there  surely  is  a  moment  when  Tantalus  rebels,  crosses 
his  arms,  and  defies  hell,  throwing  up  his  part  of  the  eternal 
dupe.    That  is  what  I  shall  come  to  if  anything  should  thwart 


ALBER  T  SA  VAR  ON.  369 

my  plan  ;  if,  after  stooping  to  the  dust  of  provincial  life,  prowl- 
ing like  a  starving  tiger  round  these  tradesmen,  these  electors, 
to  secure  their  votes;  if,  after  wrangling  in  these  squalid 
cases,  and  giving  them  my  time — the  time  I  might  have  spent 
on  Lago  Maggiore,  seeing  the  waters  she  sees,  basking  in  her 
gaze,  hearing  her  voice — if,  after  all,  I  failed  to  scale  the 
tribune  and  conquer  the  glory  that  should  surround  the  name 
that  is  to  succeed  to  that  of  Argaiolo  !  Nay,  more  than  this, 
Leopold ;  there  are  days  when  I  feel  a  heavy  languor ;  deep 
disgust  surges  up  from  the  depths  of  my  soul,  especially  when, 
abandoned  to  long  day-dreams,  I  have  lost  myself  in  anticipa- 
tion of  the  joys  of  blissful  love  !  May  it  not  be  that  our  de- 
sire has  only  a  certain  modicum  of  powQr,  and  that  it  perishes, 
perhaps,  of  a  too  lavish  effusion  of  its  essence?  For,  after 
all,  at  this  present,  my  life  is  fair,  illuminated  by  faith,  work, 
and  love. 

"  Farewell,  my  friend ;  I  send  love  to  your  children,  and 
beg  you  to  remember  me  to  your  excellent  wife.     Yours, 

"Albert." 

Rosalie  read  this  letter  twice  through,  and  its  general  purport 
was  stamped  on  her  heart.  She  suddenly  saw  the  whole  of 
Albert's  previous  existence,  for  her  quick  intelligence  threw 
light  on  all  the  details,  and  enabled  her  to  take  it  all  in.  By 
adding  this  information  to  the  little  novel  published  in  the 
Revieiv,  she  now  fully  understood  Albert.  Of  course,  she 
exaggerated  the  greatness,  remarkable  as  it  was,  of  this  lofty 
soul  and  potent  will,  and  her  love  for  Albert  thenceforth 
became  a  passion,  its  violence  enhanced  by  all  the  strength  of 
her  youth,  the  weariness  of  her  solitude,  and  the  unspent 
energy  of  her  character.  Love  is  in  a  young  girl  the  effect 
of  a  natural  law ;  but  when  her  craving  for  affection  is  centred 
in  an  exceptional  man,  it  is  mingled  with  the  enthusiasm 
which  overflows  in  a  youthful  heart.  Thus  Mademoiselle  de 
Watteville  had  in  a  few  days  reached  a  morbid  and  very 


360  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

dangerous  stage  of  enamored  infatuation.  The  Baroness  was 
much  pleased  with  her  daughter,  who,  being  under  the  spell 
of  her  absorbing  thoughts,  never  resisted  her  will,  seemed  to 
be  devoted  to  feminine  occupations,  and  realized  her  mother's 
ideal  of  a  docile  daughter. 

The  lawyer  was  now  engaged  in  court  two  or  three  times  a 
week.  Though  he  was  overwhelmed  with  business  he  found 
time  to  attend  the  trials,  call  on  litigious  merchants,  and 
conduct  the  Review;  keeping  up  his  personal  mystery, 
from  the  conviction  that  the  more  covert  and  hidden  was  his 
influence,  the  more,  real  it  would  be.  But  he  neglected  no 
means  of  success,  reading  up  the  list  of  electors  of  Besangon, 
and  finding  out  their  interests,  their  characters,  their  various 
friendships  and  antipathies.  Did  ever  a  cardinal  hoping  to 
be  made  pope  give  himself  more  trouble  ? 

One  evening  Mariette,  on  coming  to  dress  Rosalie  for  an 
evening  party,  handed  to  her,  not  without  many  groans  over  this 
treachery,  a  letter  of  which  the  address  made  Mademoiselle 
de  Watteville  shiver  and  redden  and  turn  pale  again  as  she 
read  the  address : 

To  Madame  la  Duchesse  (t  Argaiolo 
{nie  Princesse  Soderini)^ 

At  Belgirate, 

Lago  Maggiore,  Italy. 

In  her  eyes  this  direction  blazed  as  the  words  Metie,  Mene^ 
Tekel,  Upharsin,  did  in  the  eyes  of  Belshazzar.  After  concealing 
the  letter,  Rosalie  went  downstairs  to  accompany  her  mother 
to  Madame  de  Chavoncourt's ;  and  as  long  as  the  endless 
evening  lasted,  she  was  tormented  by  remorse  and  scruples. 
She  had  already  felt  shame  at  having  violated  the  secrecy  of 
Albert's  letter  to  Leopold  ;  she  had  several  times  asked  her- 
self whether,  if  he  knew  of  her  crime,  infamous  inasmuch  as 
it  necessarily  goes  unpunished,  the  high-minded  Albert  could 


ALBERT  SA  VARON.  361 

esteem  her.  Her  conscience  answered  an  uncompromising 
"No." 

She  had  expiated  her  sin  by  self-imposed  penances ;  she 
fasted ;  she  mortified  herself  by  remaining  on  her  knees,  her 
arms  outstretched  for  hours,  and  repeating  prayers  all  the  time. 
She  had  compelled  Mariette  to  similar  acts  of  repentance ;  her 
passion  was  mingled  with  genuine  asceticism,  and  was  all  the 
more  dangerous. 

"  Shall  I  read  that  letter,  shall  I  not?"  she  asked  herself, 
while  listening  to  the  Chavoncourt  girls.  One  was  sixteen, 
the  other  seventeen  and  a  half.  Rosalie  looked  upon  her  two 
friends  as  mere  children  because  they  were  not  secretly  in  love. 
"  If  I  read  it,"  she  finally  decided,  after  hesitating  for  an  hour 
between  yes  and  no,  "  it  shall,  at  any  rate,  be  the  last.  Since 
I  have  gone  so  far  as  to  see  what  he  wrote  to  his  friend,  why 
should  I  not  know  what  he  says  to  her  ?  If  it  is  a  horrible 
crime,  is  it  not  a  proof  of  love  ?  Oh,  Albert !  am  I  not  your 
love?" 

When  Rosalie  was  in  bed  she  opened  the  letter,  dated  from 
day  to  day,  so  as  to  give  the  Duchess  a  faithful  picture  of 
Albert's  life  and  feelings. 

"  My  dear  Soul,  all  is  well.  To  my  other  conquests  I  have 
just  added  an  invaluable  one  :  I  have  done  a  service  to  one  of 
the  most  influential  men  who  work  the  elections.  Like  the 
critics,  who  make  other  men's  reputations  but  can  never  make 
their  own,  he  makes  deputies  though  he  can  never  become  one. 
The  worthy  man  wanted  to  show  his  gratitude  without  loosen- 
ing his  purse-strings  by  saying  to  me,  '  Would  you  care  to  sit 
in  the  Chamber?     I  can  get  you  returned  as  deputy.' 

'*  *  If  I  ever  made  up  my  mind  to  enter  on  a  political 
career,'  replied  I  hypocritically,  *  it  would  be  to  devote 
myself  to  the  Comte,  which  I  love,  and  where  I  am  appre- 
ciated.' 

**  'Well,'  he  said,  *  we  will  persuade  you,  and  through  you 


362  ALBER  T  SA  VAR  ON, 

we  shall  have  weight  in  the  Chamber,  for  you  will  distinguish 
yourself  there.' 

"  And  so,  my  beloved  angel,  say  what  you  will,  my  perse- 
verance will  be  rewarded.  Ere  long  I  shall,  from  the  high- 
place  of  the  French  Tribune,  come  before  my  country,  before 
Europe.  My  name  will  be  flung  to  you  by  the  hundred  voices 
of  the  French  press. 

"  Yes,  as  you  tell  me,  I  was  old  when  I  came  to  Besan^on, 
and  Besan^on  has  aged  me  more;  but,  like  Sixtus  V.,  I  shall 
be  young  again  the  day  after  my  election.  I  shall  enter  on 
my  true  life,  my  own  sphere.  Shall  we  not  then  stand  in  the 
same  line  ?  Count  Savaron  de  Savarus,  ambassador  I  know 
not  where,  may  surely  marry  a  Princess  Soderini,  the  widow 
of  the  Due  d'Argaiolo  !  Triumph  restores  the  youth  of  men 
who  have  been  preserved  by  incessant  struggles.  Oh,  my 
Life !  with  what  gladness  did  I  fly  from  my  library  to  my 
private  room,  to  tell  your  portrait  of  this  progress  before 
writing  to  you  !  Yes,  the  votes  I  can  command,  those  of 
the  vicar-general,  of  the  persons  I  can  oblige,  and  of  this 
client,  make  my  election  already  sure. 

"  26th. 

"  We  have  entered  on  the  twelfth  year  since  that  blest 
evening  when,  by  a  look,  the  beautiful  Duchess  sealed  the 
promises  made  by  the  exile  Francesca.  You,  dear,  are  thirty- 
two,  I  am  thirty-five ;  the  dear  Duke  is  seventy-seven — that  is 
to  say,  ten  years  more  than  yours  and  mine  put  together,  and 
he  still  keeps  well !  My  patience  is  almost  as  great  as  my 
love,  and  indeed  I  need  a  few  years  yet  to  rise  to  the  level  of 
your  name.  As  you  see,  I  am  in  good  spirits  to-day,  I  can 
laugh  ;  that  is  the  effect  of  hope.  Sadness  or  gladness,  it  all 
comes  to  me  through  you.  The  hope  of  success  always  carries 
me  back  to  the  day  following  that  on  which  I  saw  you  for 
the  first  time,  when  my  life  became  one  with  yours  as  the 
earth  turns  to  the  light.  Qual  pianto  are  these  eleven  years, 
for  this  is  the  26th  of  December,  the  anniversary  of  my  arrival 


ALBER  T  SAVAR  ON.  $63 

at  your  villa  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva.  For  eleven  years  have  I 
been  crying  to  you,  while  you  shine  like  a  star  set  too  high 
for  man  to  reach  it. 

"  ^^th. 

"  No,  dearest,  do  not  go  to  Milan ;  stay  at  Belgirate. 
Milan  terrifies  me.  I  do  not  like  that  odious  Milanese  fashion 
of  chatting  at  the  Scala  every  evening  with  a  dozen  persons, 
among  whom  it  is  hard  if  no  one  says  something  sweet.  To 
me  solitude  is  like  the  lump  of  amber  in  whose  heart  an  insect 
lives  for  ever  in  unchanging  beauty.  Thus  the  heart  and  soul 
of  a  woman  remain  pure  and  unaltered  in  the  form  of  their 
first  youth.     Is  it  the  Tedeschi  that  you  regret  ? 

"  2%th. 

"Is  your  statue  never  to  be  finished?  I  should  wish  to 
have  you  in  marble,  in  painting,  in  miniature,  in  every  pos- 
sible form,  to  beguile  my  impatience.  I  still  am  waiting  for 
the  view  of  Belgirate  from  the  south,  and  that  of  the  balcony ; 
these  are  all  that  I  now  lack.  I  am  so  extremely  busy  that 
to-day  I  can  only  write  you  nothing — but  that  nothing  is 
everything.  Was  it  not  of  nothing  that  God  made  the  world? 
That  nothing  is  a  word,  God's  word  :  I  love  you  ! 

"2,0th. 

"Ah  !  I  have  received  your  journal.  Thanks  for  your 
punctuality.  So  you  found  great  pleasure  in  seeing  all  the 
details  of  our  first  acquaintance  thus  set  down?  Alas!  even 
while  disguising  them  I  was  sorely  afraid  of  offending  you. 
We  had  no  stories,  and  a  Review  without  stories  is  a  beauty 
without  hair.  Not  being  inventive  by  nature,  and  in  sheer 
despair,  I  took  the  only  poetry  in  my  soul,  the  only  adventure 
in  my  memory,  and  pitched  it  in  the  key  in  which  it  would 
bear  telling ;  nor  did  I  ever  cease  to  think  of  you  while 
writing  the  only  literary  production  that  will  ever  come  from 
my  heart,  I  cannot  say  from  my  pen.  Did  not  the  trans- 
formation of  your  fierce  Sormano  into  Gina  cause  you  to 
laugh  ? 


364  ALBERT  S AVAR  ON. 

**  You  ask  after  my  health.  Well,  it  is  better  than  in  Paris. 
Though  I  work  enormously,  the  peacefulness  of  the  surround- 
ings has  its  effect  on  the  mind.  What  really  tries  and  ages 
me,  dear  angel,  is  the  anguish  of  mortified  vanity,  the  per- 
petual friction  of  Paris  life,  the  struggle  of  rival  ambitions. 
This  peace  is  a  balm. 

"  If  you  could  imagine  the  pleasure  your  letter  gives  me  ! — 
the  long,  kind  letter  in  which  you  tell  me  the  most  trivial 
incidents  of  your  life.  No  !  you  women  can  never  know  to 
what  a  degree  a  true  lover  is  interested  in  these  trifles.  It  was 
an  immense  pleasure  to  see  the  pattern  of  your  new  dress. 
Can  it  be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me  to  know  what  you 
wear  ?  If  your  lofty  brow  is  knit  ?  If  our  writers  amuse  you  ? 
If  Canalis'  songs  delight  you?  I  read  the  books  you  read. 
Even  to  your  boating  on  the  lake;  every  incident  touched  me. 
Your  letter  is  as  lovely,  as  sweet  as  your  soul !  Oh  !  flower 
of  heaven,  perpetually  adored,  could  I  have  lived  without 
those  dear  letters,  which  for  eleven  years  have  upheld  me  in 
my  difiicult  path  like  a  light,  like  a  perfume,  like  a  steady 
chant,  like  some  divine  nourishment,  like  everything  which 
can  soothe  and  comfort  life. 

"  Do  not  fail  me  !  If  you  knew  what  anxiety  I  suffer  the 
day  before  they  are  due,  or  the  pain  a  day's  delay  can  give 
me !  Is  she  ill  ?  Is  he  ?  I  am  midway  between  hell  and 
paradise. 

"  O  tnia  cara  diva,  keep  up  your  music,  exercise  your  voice, 
practice.  I  am  enchanted  with  the  coincidence  of  employ- 
ments and  hours  by  which,  though  separated  by  the  Alps,  we 
live  by  precisely  the  same  rule.  The  thought  charms  me  and 
gives  me  courage.  The  first  time  I  undertook  to  plead  here — 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  this — I  fancied  that  you  were  listening  to 
me,  and  I  suddenly  felt  the  flash  of  inspiration  which  lifts  the 
poet  above  mankind.  If  I  am  returned  to  the  Chamber — oh  ! 
you  must  come  to  Paris  to  be  present  at  my  first  appearance 
theie ! 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  365 

"  30M,  Evening. 

"  Good  heavens,  how  I  love  you !  Alas !  I  have  in- 
trusted  too  much  to  my  love  and  my  hopes.  An  accident 
which  should  sink  that  overloaded  bark  would  end  my  life  ! 
For  three  years  now  I  have  not  seen  you,  and  at  the  thought 
of  going  to  Belgirate  my  heart  beats  so  wildly  that  I  am 
forced  to  stop.  To  see  you,  to  hear  that  girlish  caressing 
voice  !  To  embrace  in  my  gaze  that  ivory  skin,  glistening 
under  the  candlelight,  and  through  which  I  can  read  your 
noble  mind !  To  admire  your  fingers  playing  on  the  keys, 
to  drink  in  your  whole  soul  in  a  look,  in  the  tone  of  an  Oinie. 
or  an  Alberto  /  To  walk  by  the  blossoming  orange  trees,  to 
live  a  few  months  in  the  bosom  of  that  glorious  scenery ! 
That  is  life.  What  folly  it  is  to  run  after  power,  a  name, 
fortune  !  But  at  Belgirate  there  is  everything;  there  is  poetry, 
there  is  glory !  I  ought  to  have  made  myself  your  steward, 
or,  as  that  dear  tyrant  whom  we  cannot  hate  proposed  to  me, 
live  there  as  cavaliere  servente,  only  our  passion  was  too  fierce 
to  allow  of  it. 

"  Farewell,  my  angel,  forgive  me  my  next  fit  of  sadness  in 
consideration  of  this  cheerful  mood  ;  it  has  come  as  a  beam 
of  light  from  the  torch  of  Hope,  which  has  hitherto  seemed 
to  me  a  will-o'-the-wisp." 

"How  he  loves  her  !  "  cried  Rosalie,  dropping  the  letter, 
which  seemed  heavy  in  her  hand.  "  After  eleven  years,  to 
write  like  this  !  " 

"Mariette,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  to  her  maid 
next  morning,  "  go  and  post  this  letter.  Tell  Jerome  that  I 
know  all  I  wished  to  know,  and  that  he  is  to  serve  Monsieur 
Albert  faithfully.  We  will  confess  our  sins,  you  and  I,  without 
saying  to  whom  the  letters  belonged,  nor  to  whom  they  were 
going.     I  was  in  the  wrong  ;  I  alone  am  guilty." 

"  Mademoiselle  has  been  crying?"  said  Marietta,  noticing 
Rosalie's  eyes. 


866  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

**  Yes,  but  I  do  not  want  that  my  mother  should  perceive 
it;  give  me  some  very  cold  water." 

In  the  midst  of  the  storms  of  her  passion  Rosalie  often  lis- 
tened to  the  voice  of  conscience.  Touched  by  the  beautiful 
fidelity  of  these  two  hearts,  she  had  just  said  her  prayers, 
telling  herself  that  there  was  nothing  left  to  her  but  to  be 
resigned,  and  to  respect  the  happiness  of  two  beings  worthy 
of  each  other,  submissive  to  fate,  looking  to  God  for  every- 
thing, without  allowing  themselves  any  criminal  acts  or  wishes. 
She  felt  a  better  woman,  and  had  a  certain  sense  of  satisfac- 
tion after  coming  to  this  resolution,  inspired  by  the  natural 
rectitude  of  youth.  And  she  was  confirmed  in  it  by  a  girl's 
idea :  She  was  sacrificing  herself  for  him. 

"She  does  not  know  how  to  love,"  thought  she.  "Ah! 
if  it  were  I — I  would  give  up  everything  to  a  man  who  loved 
me  so.  To  be  loved  !  When,  by  whom  shall  I  be  loved  ? 
That  little  Monsieur  de  Soulas  only  loves  my  money;  if  I 
were  poor,  he  would  not  even  look  at  me." 

"Rosalie,  my  child,  what  are  you  thinking  about?  You 
are  working  beyond  the  outline,"  said  the  Baroness  to  her 
daughter,  who  was  making  worsted-work  slippers  for  the  Baron. 

Rosalie  spent  the  winter  of  1834-35  torn  by  secret  tumult ; 
but  in  the  spring,  in  the  month  of  April,  when  she  reached 
the  age  of  nineteen,  she  sometimes  thought  that  it  would  be 
a  fine  thing  to  triumph  over  a  Duchesse  d'Argaiolo.  In  silence 
and  solitude  the  prospect  of  this  struggle  had  fanned  her  pas- 
sion and  her  evil  thoughts.  She  encouraged  her  romantic 
daring  by  making  plan  after  plan.  Although  such  characters 
are  an  exception,  there  are,  unfortunately,  too  many  Rosalies 
in  the  world,  and  this  story  contains  a  moral  which  ought  to 
serve  them  as  a  warning. 

In  the  course  of  this  winter  Albert  Savaron  had  quietly  made 
considerable  progress  in  Besangon.  Most  confident  of  suc- 
cess, he    now  impatiently  awaited    the  dissolution   of   the 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  367 

Chamber.  Among  the  men  of  the  moderate  party  he  had 
won  the  suffrages  of  one  of  the  makers  of  Besan^on,  a  rich 
contractor,  who  had  very  wide  influence. 

Wherever  they  settled  the  Romans  took  immense  pains, 
and  spent  enormous  sums  to  have  an  unlimited  supply  of  good 
water  in  every  town  of  their  empire.  At  Bensa^on  they 
drank  the  water  from  Arcier,  a  hill  at  some  considerable  dis- 
tance from  Besan^on.  The  town  stands  in  a  horseshoe  circum- 
scribed by  the  river  Doubs.  Thus,  to  restore  an  aqueduct  in 
order  to  drink  the  same  water  that  the  Romans  drank,  in  a 
town  watered  by  the  Doubs,  is  one  of  those  absurdities  which 
only  succeed  in  a  country  place  where  the  most  exemplary 
gravity  prevails.  If  this  whim  could  be  brought  home  to  the 
hearts  of  the  citizens,  it  would  lead  to  considerable  outlay,  and 
this  expenditure  would  benefit  the  influential  contractor. 

Albert  Savaron  de  Savarus  opined  that  the  water  of  the 
river  was  good  for  nothing  but  to  flow  under  a  suspension 
bridge,  and  that  the  only  drinkable  water  was  that  from 
Arcier.  Articles  were  printed  in  the  Review  which  merely 
expressed  the  views  of  the  commercial  interest  of  Besan^on. 
The  nobility  and  the  citizens,  the  moderates  and  the  legiti- 
mists, the  government  party  and  the  opposition,  everybody,  in 
short,  was  agreed  that  they  must  drink  the  same  water  as  the 
Romans,  and  boast  of  a  suspension  bridge.  The  question  of 
the  Arcier  water  was  the  order  of  the  day  at  Besan^on.  At 
Besanyon — as  in  the  matter  of  the  two  railways  to  Versailles — 
as  for  every  standing  abuse — there  were  private  interests  un- 
confessed  which  gave  vital  force  to  this  idea.  The  reasonable 
folk  m  opposition  to  this  scheme,  who  were  indeed  but  few, 
were  regarded  as  old  women.  No  one  talked  of  anything  but 
of  Savaron's  two  projects.  And  thus,  after  eighteen  months 
of  underground  labor,  the  ambitious  lawyer  had  succeeded  in 
stirring  to  its  depths  the  most  stagnant  town  in  France,  the 
most  unyielding  to  foreign  influence,  in  finding  the  length  of 
its  foot,  to  use  a  vulgar  phrase,  and  exerting  a  preponderant 


868  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

influence  without  stirring  from  his  own  room.  He  had 
solved  the  singular  problem  of  how  to  be  powerful  without 
being  popular. 

In  the  course  of  this  winter  he  won  seven  lawsuits  for  vari- 
ous priests  of  Besan9on.  At  moments  he  could  breathe  freely 
at  the  thought  of  his  coming  triumph.  This  intense  desire, 
which  made  him  work  so  many  interests  and  devise  so  many 
springs,  absorbed  the  last  strength  of  his  terribly  overstrung 
soul.  His  disinterestedness  was  lauded,  and  he  took  his 
clients'  fees  without  comment.  But  this  disinterestedness  was, 
in  truth,  moral  usury ;  he  counted  on  a  reward  far  greater  to 
him  than  all  the  gold  in  the  world. 

In  the  month  of  October,  1834,  he  had  bought,  ostensibly 
to  serve  a  merchant  who  was  in  difficulties,  with  money  loaned 
him  by  Leopold  Hannequin,  a  house  which  gave  him  a  quali- 
fication for  election.  He  had  not  seemed  to  seek  or  desire 
this  advantageous  bargain. 

"You  are  really  a  remarkable  man,"  said  the  Abbe  de 
Grancey,  who,  of  course,  had  watched  and  understood  the 
lawyer.  The  vicar-general  had  come  to  introduce  to  him  a 
canon  who  needed  his  professional  advice.  "  You  are  a  priest 
who  has  taken  the  wrong  turning."  This  observation  struck 
Savaron. 

Rosalie,  on  her  part,  had  made  up  her  mind,  in  her  strong 
girl's  head,  to  get  Monsieur  de  Savaron  into  the  drawing-room 
and  acquainted  with  the  society  of  the  Hotel  de  Rupt.  So 
far  she  had  limited  her  desires  to  seeing  and  hearing  Albert. 
She  had  compounded,  so  to  speak,  and  a  composition  is  often 
no  more  than  a  truce, 

Les  Rouxey,  the  inherited  estate  of  the  Wattevilles,  was 
worth  just  ten  thousand  francs  a  year ;  but  in  other  hands  it 
would  have  yielded  a  great  deal  more.  The  Baron  in  his 
indifference — for  his  wife  was  to  have,  and  in  fact  had,  forty 
thousand  francs  a  year — left  the  management  of  Les  Rouxey  to 
a  sort  of  factotum,  an  old  servant  of  the  Wattevilles  named 


ALBER  T  SA  VAR  ON.  369 

Modinier.  Nevertheless,  whenever  the  Baron  and  his  wife 
wished  to  go  out  of  the  town,  they  went  to  Les  Rouxey,  which  is 
very  picturesquely  situated.  The  chateau  and  the  park  were, 
in  fact,  created  by  the  famous  Watteville,  who  in  his  active 
old  age  was  passionately  attached  to  this  magnificent  spot. 

Between  two  precipitous  hills — little  peaks  with  bare  sum- 
mits known  as  the  great  and  the  little  Rouxey — in  the  heart 
of  a  ravine  where  the  torrents  from  the  heights,  with  the 
Dent  de  Vilard  at  their  head,  come  tumbling  to  join  the 
lovely  upper  waters  of  the  Doubs,  Watteville  had  a  huge  dam 
constructed,  leaving  two  cuttings  for  the  overflow.  Above 
this  dam  he  made  a  beautiful  lake,  and  below  it  two  cascades ; 
and  these,  uniting  a  few  yards  below  the  falls,  formed  a 
lovely  little  river  to  irrigate  the  barren,  uncultivated  valley, 
hitherto  devastated  by  the  torrent.  This  lake,  this  valley, 
and  these  two  hills  he  enclosed  in  a  ring  fence,  and  built  him- 
self a  retreat  on  the  dam,  which  he  widened  to  two  acres  by 
accumulating  above  it  all  the  soil  which  had  to  be  removed  to 
make  a  channel  for  the  river  and  the  irrigation  canals. 

When  the  Baron  de  Watteville  thus  obtained  the  lake  above 
his  dam  he  was  owner  of  the  two  hills,  but  not  of  the  upper 
valley  thus  flooded,  through  which  there  had  been  at  all 
times  a  right-of-way  to  where  it  ends  in  a  horseshoe  under  the 
Dent  de  Vilard.  But  this  ferocious  old  man  was  so  widely 
dreaded,  that  so  long  as  he  lived  no  claim  was  urged  by  the 
inhabitants  of  Riceys,  the  little  village  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  Dent  de  Vilard.  When  the  Baron  died,  he  left  the  slopes 
of  the  two  Rouxey  hills  joined  by  a  strong  wall,  to  protect 
from  inundation  the  two  lateral  valleys  opening  into  the 
valley  of  Rouxey,  to  the  right  and  left  at  the  foot  of  the 
Dent  de  Vilard.  Thus  he  died  the  master  of  the  Dent  de 
Vilard. 

His   heirs   asserted   their   protectorate  of   the   village   of 
Riceys,  and  so  maintained  the  usurpation.     The  old  assassin, 
the  old  renegade,  the  old  Abb6  Watteville,  ended  his  career 
24 


870  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

by  planting  trees  and  making  a  fine  road  over  the  shoulder  of 
one  of  the  Rouxey  hills  to  join  the  high-road.  The  estate 
belonging  to  this  park  and  house  was  extensive,  but  badly 
cultivated ;  there  were  chalets  on  both  hills  and  neglected 
forests  of  timber.  It  was  all  wild  and  deserted,  left  to  the 
care  of  nature,  abandoned  to  chance  growths,  but  full  of  sub- 
lime and  unexpected  beauty.  You  may  now  imagine  Les 
Rouxey, 

It  is  unnecessary  to  complicate  this  story  by  relating  all  the 
prodigious  trouble  and  the  inventiveness  stamped  with  genius 
by  which  Rosalie  achieved  her  end  without  allowing  it  to  be 
suspected.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  it  was  in  obedience  to  her 
mother  that  she  left  Besangon  in  the  month  of  May,  1835,  in 
an  antique  traveling  carriage  drawn  by  a  pair  of  sturdy  hired 
horses,  and  accompanied  her  father  to  Les  Rouxey. 

To  a  young  girl  love  lurks  in  everything.  When  she  rose, 
the  morning  after  her  arrival.  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville 
saw  from  her  bedroom  window  the  fine  expanse  of  water, 
from  which  the  light  mists  rose  like  smoke,  and  were  caught 
in  the  firs  and  larches,  rolling  up  and  along  the  hills  till  they 
reached  the  heights,  and  she  gave  a  cry  of  admiration. 

"  They  loved  by  the  lakes  !  She  lives  by  a  lake  !  A  lake 
is  certainly  full  of  love  !  "  she  thought. 

A  lake  fed  by  snows  has  opalescent  colors  and  a  translucency 
that  make  it  one  huge  diamond  ;  but  when  it  is  shut  in  like 
that  of  Les  Rouxey,  between  two  granite  masses  covered  with 
pines,  when  silence  broods  over  it  like  that  of  the  Savannahs 
or  the  Steppes,  then  every  one  must  exclaim  as  Rosalie  did. 

"  We  owe  that,"  said  her  father,  "  to  the  notorious  Watte- 
ville." 

"On  my  word,"  said  the  girl,  "he  did  his  best  to  earn 
forgiveness.  Let  us  go  in  a  boat  to  the  farther  end ;  it  will 
give  us  an  appetite  for  breakfast." 

The  Baron  called  two  gardener  lads  who  knew  how  to  row, 
and  took  with  him  his  prime  minister,  Modinier.     The  lake 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  37I 

was  about  six  acres  in  breadth,  in  some  places  ten  or  twelve 
and  four  hundred  in  length,     Rosalie  soon  found  herself  at 
the  upper  end  shut  in  by  the  Dent  de  Vilard,  the  Jungfrau  of 
that  little  Switzerland. 

"  Here  we  are,  Monsieur  le  Baron,"  said  Modinier,  signing 
to  the  gardeners  to  tie  up  the  boat;  "will  you  come  and 
look?" 

"Look  at  what?"  asked  Rosalie. 

"  Oh,  nothing !  "  exclaimed  the  Baron.  "  But  you  are  a 
sensible  girl ;  we  have  some  little  secrets  between  us,  and  I 
may  tell  you  what  ruffles  my  mind.  Some  difficulties  have 
arisen  since  1830  between  the  village  authorities  of  Riceys 
and  me,  on  account  of  this  very  Dent  de  Vilard,  and  I  want 
to  settle  the  matter  without  your  mother  knowing  anything 
about  it,  for  she  is  stubborn  ;  she  is  capable  of  flinging  fire 
and  flames  broadcast,  particularly  if  she  should  hear  that  the 
mayor  of  Riceys,  a  Republican,  got  up  this  action  as  a  sop  to 
his  people." 

Rosalie  had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  disguise  her  delight, 
so  as  to  work  more  effectually  on  her  father. 

"  What  action  ?  "  said  she, 

"Mademoiselle,  the  people  of  Riceys,"  said  Modinier, 
"  have  long  enjoyed  the  right  of  grazing  and  cutting  fodder 
on  their  side  of  the  Dent  de  Vilard.  Now  Monsieur  Chan- 
tonnit,  the  mayor  since  1830,  declares  that  the  whole  Dent 
belongs  to  his  district,  and  maintains  that  a  hundred  years 
ago,  or  more,  there  was  a  way  through  our  grounds.  You  un- 
derstand that  in  that  case  we  should  no  longer  have  them  to 
ourselves.  Then  this  barbarian  would  end  by  saying,  what 
the  old  men  in  the  village  say,  that  the  ground  occupied  by 
the  lake  was  appropriated  by  the  Abb6  de  Watteville,  That 
would  be  the  end  of  Les  Rouxey;  what  next?" 

"  Indeed,  my  child,  between  ourselves,  it  is  the  truth," 
said  Monsieur  de  Watteville  simply,  "  The  land  is  an  usurpa- 
tion, with  no  title-deed  but  lapse  of  time.     And,  therefore,  to 


372  ALBERT  SAVARON, 

avoid  all  worry,  I  should  wish  to  come  to  a  friendly  under- 
standing as  to  my  border-line  on  this  side  of  the  Dent  de 
Vilard,  and  I  will  then  raise  a  wall." 

**  If  you  give  way  to  the  municipality,  it  will  swallow  you 
up.     You  ought  to  have  threatened  Riceys." 

"That  is  just  what  I  told  the  master  last  evening,"  said 
Modinier.  "But  in  confirmation  of  that  view  I  proposed 
that  he  should  come  to  see  whether,  on  this  side  of  the  Dent 
or  on  the  other,  there  may  not  be,  high  or  low,  some  traces 
of  an  enclosure." 

For  a  century  the  Dent  de  Vilard  had  been  used  by  both 
parties  without  coming  to  extremities ;  it  stood  as  a  sort  of 
party  wall  between  the  communes  of  Riceys  and  Les  Rouxey, 
yielding  little  profit.  Indeed,  the  object  in  dispute,  being 
covered  with  snow  for  six  months  in  the  year,  was  of  a  nature 
to  cool  their  ardor.  Thus  it  required  all  the  hot  blast  by 
which  the  revolution  of  1830  inflamed  the  advocates  of  the 
people  to  stir  up  this  matter,  by  which  Monsieur  Chantonnit, 
the  mayor  of  Riceys,  hoped  to  give  a  dramatic  turn  to  his 
career  on  the  peaceful  frontier  of  Switzerland,  and  to  immor- 
talize his  term  of  office.  Chantonnit,  as  his  name  shows,  was 
a  native  of  Neufchatel. 

"  My  dear  father,"  said  Rosalie,  as  they  got  into  the  boat 
again,  "  I  agree  with  Modinier.  If  you  wish  to  secure  the 
joint  possession  of  the  Dent  de  Vilard,  you  must  act  with 
decision  and  get  a  legal  opinion  which  will  protect  you  against 
this  enterprising  Chantonnit.  Why  should  you  be  afraid? 
Get  the  famous  lawyer  Savaron — engage  him  at  once,  lest 
Chantonnit  should  place  the  interests  of  the  village  in  his 
hands.  The  man  who  won  the  case  for  the  chapter  against 
the  town  can  certainly  win  that  of  Watteville  versus  Riceys  ! 
Besides,"  she  added,  "  Les  Rouxey  will  some  day  be  mine^ — 
not  for  a  long  time  yet,  I  trust.  Well,  then,  do  not  leave  me 
with  a  lawsuit  on  my  hands.  I  like  this  place  ;  I  shall  often  live 
here,  and  add  to  it  as  much  as  possible.    On  those  banksj"  and 


ALBERT  S AVAR  ON.  S73 

she  pointed  to  the  feet  of  the  two  hills,  "  I  shall  cut  flower- 
beds and  make  the  loveliest  English  gardens.  Let  us  go  to 
Besan^on  and  bring  back  with  us  the  Abbe  de  Grancey,  Mon- 
sieur Savaron,  and  my  mother,  if  she  cares  to  come.  You  can 
then  make  up  your  mind ;  but  in  your  place  I  should  have 
done  so  already.  Your  name  is  Watteville,  and  you  are  afraid 
of  a  fight !  If  you  should  lose  your  case — well,  I  will  never 
reproach  you  by  a  word  !  * ' 

"  Oh,  if  that  is  the  way  you  take  it,"  said  the  Baron,  "  I 
am  quite  ready  ;  I  will  see  the  lawyer." 

"Besides,  a  lawsuit  is  really  great  fun.  It  brings  some 
interest  into  life,  with  coming  and  going  and  raging  over  it. 
You  will  have  a  great  deal  to  do  before  you  can  get  hold  of 
the  judges.  We  did  not  see  the  Abb6  de  Grancey  for  three 
weeks,  he  was  so  busy  !  " 

**  But  the  very  existence  of  the  chapter  was  involved,"  said 
Monsieur  de  Watteville ;  "  and  then  the  archbishop's  pride,  his 
conscience,  everything  that  makes  up  the  life  of  the  priesthood, 
were  at  stake.  That  Savaron  does  not  know  what  he  did  for 
the  chapter  !     He  saved  it !  " 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  his  daughter  in  his  ear,  "if  you 
secure  Monsieur  de  Savaron,  you  will  gain  your  suit,  won't 
you?  Well,  then,  let  me  advise  you.  You  cannot  get  at 
Monsieur  Savaron  excepting  through  Monsieur  de  Grancey. 
Take  my  word  for  it,  and  let  us  together  talk  to  the  dear  abbe, 
without  my  mother's  presence  at  the  interview,  for  I  know  a 
way  of  persuading  him  to  bring  the  lawyer  to  us." 

"It  will  be  very  difficult  to  avoid  mentioning  it  to  your 
mother!" 

"  The  Abb6  de  Grancey  will  settle  that  afterwards.  But 
just  make  up  your  mind  to  promise  your  vote  to  Monsieur 
Savaron  at  the  next  election,  and  you  will  see  !  " 

"Go  to  the  election  !  take  the  oath?"  cried  the  Baron  de 
Watteville. 

"What  then?"  said  she. 


374  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

"  And  what  will  your  mother  say?  " 

"  She  may  even  desire  you  to  do  it,"  replied  Rosalie, 
knowing  as  she  did  from  Albert's  letter  to  Leopold  how  deeply 
the  vicar-general  had  pledged  himself. 

Four  days  after,  the  Abbe  de  Grancey  called  very  early  one 
morning  on  Albert  de  Savaron,  having  announced  his  visit  the 
day  before.  The  old  priest  had  come  to  win  over  the  great 
lawyer  to  the  house  of  the  Wattevilles,  a  proceeding  which 
shows  how  much  tact  and  subtlety  Rosalie  must  have  employed 
in  an  underhand  way. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Monsieur  le  Vicaire-General  ?  " 
asked  Savaron. 

The  abb6,  who  told  his  story  with  admirable  frankness,  was 
coldly  heard  by  Albert. 

"  Monsieur  I'Abbe,"  said  he,  "  it  is  out  of  the  question  that 
I  should  defend  the  interests  of  the  Wattevilles,  and  you  shall 
understand  why.  My  part  in  this  town  is  to  remain  perfectly 
neutral.  I  will  display  no  colors ;  I  must  remain  a  mystery 
till  the  eve  of  my  election.  Now,  to  plead  for  the  Wattevilles 
would  mean  nothing  in  Paris,  but  here  !  Here,  where  every- 
thing is  discussed,  I  should  be  supposed  by  every  one  to  be  an 
ally  of  your  Faubourg  Saint-Germain." 

'*  What !  do  you  suppose  that  you  can  remain  unknown  on 
the  day  of  the  election,  when  the  candidates  must  oppose  each 
other  ?  It  must  then  become  known  that  your  name  is  Savaron 
de  Savarus,  that  you  have  held  the  appointment  of  master  of 
appeals,  that  you  supported  the  Restoration  !  " 

*'  On  the  day  of  the  election,"  said  Savaron,  "  I  will  be  all 
I  am  expected  to  be ;  and  I  intend  to  speak  at  the  preliminary 
meetings." 

**  If  you  have  the  support  of  Monsieur  de  Watteville  and 
his  party,  you  will  get  a  hundred  votes  in  a  mass,  and  far 
more  to  be  trusted  than  those  on  which  you  rely.  It  is  always 
possible  to  produce  division  of  interests ;  convictions  are  in- 
separable." 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  375 

"  The  deuce  is  in  it !  "  said  Savaron.  "  I  am  attached  to 
you,  and  I  could  do  a  great  deal  for  you,  father  !  Perhaps  we 
may  compound  with  the  devil.  Whatever  Monsieur  de  Watte- 
ville's  business  may  be,  by  engaging  Girardet,  and  prompting 
him,  it  will  be  possible  to  drag  the  proceedings  out  till  the 
elections  are  over.  I  will  not  undertake  to  plead  till  the  day 
after  I  am  returned." 

"  Do  this  one  thing,"  said  the  abb6.  "  Come  to  the  Hotel 
de  Rupt :  there  is  a  young  person  of  nineteen  there  who,  one 
of  these  days,  will  have  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year, 
and  you  can  seem  to  be  paying  your  court  to  her " 

"  Ah  !   the  young  lady  I  sometimes  see  in  the  kiosk?" 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle  Rosalie,"  replied  the  Abbe  de  Gran- 
cey.  "  You  are  ambitious.  If  she  takes  a  fancy  to  you, 
you  may  be  everything  an  ambitious  man  can  wish — who 
knows?  A  minister  perhaps.  A  man  can  always  be  a  min- 
ister who  adds  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year  to  your 
amazing  talents." 

"  Monsieur  I'Abb^,  if  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  had  three 
times  her  fortune,  and  adored  me  into  the  bargain,  it  would 
be  impossible  that  I  should  marry  her ' ' 

"  You  are  married  ?  "  exclaimed  the  abbe. 

"Not  in  church  nor  before  the  mayor,  but  morally  speak- 
ing," said  Savaron. 

"  That  is  even  worse  when  a  man  cares  about  it  as  you  seem 
to  care,"  replied  the  abbe.  "Some  things  that  are  done 
can  be  undone.  Do  not  stake  your  fortune  and  your  pros- 
pects on  a  woman's  liking,  any  more  than  a  wise  man  counts 
on  a  dead  man's  shoes  before  starting  on  his  way." 

"  Let  us  say  no  more  about  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville," 
said  Albert  gravely,  "and  agree  as  to  the  facts.  At  your 
desire — for  I  have  a  regard  and  respect  for  you — I  will  appear 
for  Monsieur  de  Watteville,  but  after  the  elections.  Until 
then  Girardet  must  conduct  the  case  under  my  instructions. 
That  is  the  utmost  I  can  do." 


376  ALBERT  S AVAR  ON. 

"  But  there  are  questions  involved  which  can  only  be  set- 
tled after  careful  inspection  of  the  localities,"  said  the  vicar- 
general. 

"  Girardet  can  go,"  said  Savaron.  "  I  cannot  allow  myself, 
in  the  face  of  a  town  I  know  so  well,  to  take  any  step  which 
might  compromise  the  supreme  interests  that  lie  beyond  my 
election." 

The  abb6  left  Savaron  after  giving  him  a  keen  look,  in 
which  he  seemed  to  be  laughing  at  the  young  athlete's  uncom- 
promising politics,  while  admiring  his  firmness. 

"Ah!  I  would  have  dragged  my  father  into  a  lawsuit — I 
would  have  done  anything  to  get  him  here!  "  cried  Rosalie 
to  herself,  standing  in  the  kiosk  and  looking  at  the  lawyer 
in  his  room,  the  day  after  Albert's  interview  with  the  abbe, 
who  had  reported  the  result  to  her  father.  "  I  would  have 
committed  any  mortal  sin,  and  you  will  not  enter  the  Watte- 
villes'  drawing-room  ;  I  may  not  hear  your  fine  voice  !  You 
make  conditions  when  your  help  is  required  by  the  Watte- 
villes  and  the  Rupts  !  Well,  God  knows,  I  meant  to  be  con- 
tent with  these  small  joys;  with  seeing  you,  hearing  you 
speak,  going  with  you  to  Les  Rouxey,  that  your  presence  might 
to  me  make  the  place  sacred.  That  was  all  I  asked.  But 
now — now  I  mean  to  be  your  wife.  Yes,  yes ;  look  at  her 
portrait,  at  her  drawing-room,  her  bedroom,  at  the  four  sides 
oi  her  villa,  the  points  of  view  from  her  gardens.  You  expect 
her  statue  ?  I  will  make  her  marble  herself  towards  you  ! 
After  all,  the  woman  does  not  love.  Art,  science,  books, 
singing,  music,  have  absorbed  half  her  senses  and  her  intelli- 
gence. She  is  old,  too ;  she  is  past  thirty ;  my  Albert  will 
not  be  happy  !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter  that  you  stay  here,  Rosalie?  "  asked 
her  mother,  interrupting  her  reflections.  "  Monsieur  de 
Soulas  is  in  the  drawing-room,  and  he  observed  your  attitude, 
which  certainly  betrays  more  thoughtfulness  than  is  due  at 
your  age." 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  ^jrj 

"Then  is  Monsieur  de  Soulas  a  foe  to  thought?"  asked 
Rosalie. 

"Then  you  were  thinking?"  said  Madame  de  Watteville. 
"Why,  yes,  mamma." 

•'  Why,  no  I  you  were  not  thinking.  You  were  staring  at 
that  lawyer's  window  with  an  attention  that  is  neither  becom- 
ing nor  decent,  and  which  Monsieur  de  Soulas,  of  all  men, 
ought  never  to  have  observed." 

"Why?"  said  Rosalie. 

"  It  is  time,"  said  the  Baroness,  "  that  you  should  know 
what  our  intentions  are.  Am6d6e  likes  you,  and  you  will  not 
be  unhappy  as  Comtesse  de  Soulas." 

Rosalie,  as  white  as  a  lily,  made  no  reply,  so  completely 
was  she  stupefied  by  contending  feelings.  And  yet,  in  the 
presence  of  the  man  she  had  this  instant  begun  to  hate  vehe- 
mently, she  forced  the  kmd  of  smile  which  a  ballet-dancer 
puts  on  for  the  public.  Nay,  she  could  even  laugh  ;  she  had 
the  strength  to  conceal  her  rage,  which  presently  subsided, 
for  she  was  determined  to  make  use  of  this  fat  simpleton  to 
further  her  designs. 

"  Monsieur  Amddee,"  said  she,  at  a  moment  when  her 
mother  was  walking  ahead  of  them  in  the  garden,  affecting  to 
leave  the  young  people  together,  "  were  you  not  aware  that 
Monsieur  Albert  Savaron  de  Sa varus  is  a  Legitimist  ?" 

"A  Legitimist?" 

"  Until  1830  he  was  master  of  appeals  to  the  Council  of 
State,  attached  to  the  Supreme  Ministerial  Council,  and  in 
favor  with  the  Dauphin  and  Dauphiness.  It  would  be  very 
good  of  you  to  say  nothing  against  him,  but  it  would  be 
better  still  if  you  would  attend  the  election  this  year,  carry 
the  day,  and  hinder  that  poor  Monsieur  de  Chavoncourt  from 
representing  the  town  of  Besan^on." 

"What  sudden  interest  have  you  in  this  Savaron  ?" 

"  Monsieur  Albert  Savaron  de  Savarus,  the  natural  son  of 
the  Comte  de  Savarus — pray  keep  the  secret  of  my  indis- 


378  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

cretion — if  he  is  returned  deputy,  will  be  our  advocate  in  the 
suit  about  Les  Rouxey.  Les  Rouxey,  my  father  tells  me,  will  be 
my  property ;  I  intend  to  live  there,  it  is  a  lovely  place  !  I 
should  be  broken-hearted  at  seeing  that  fine  piece  of  the  great 
de  Watteville's  work  destroyed." 

"The  devil!"  thought  Amedee,  as  he  left  the  house. 
"  The  heiress  is  not  such  a  fool  as  her  mother  thinks  her." 

Monsieur  de  Chavoncourt  is  a  Royalist,  of  the  famous  221. 
Hence,  from  the  day  after  the  revolution  of  July,  he  always 
preached  the  salutary  doctrine  of  taking  the  oaths  and  resist- 
ing the  present  order  of  things,  after  the  pattern  of  the 
Tories  against  the  Whigs  in  England.  This  doctrine  was  not 
acceptable  to  the  Legitimists,  who,  in  their  defeat,  had  the 
wit  to  divide  in  their  opinions,  and  to  trust  to  the  force  of 
inertia,  and  to  Providence.  Monsieur  de  Chavoncourt  was 
not  wholly  trusted  by  his  own  party,  but  seemed  to  the 
Moderates  the  best  man  to  choose ;  they  preferred  the  triumph 
of  his  half-hearted  opinions  to  the  acclamation  of  a  Repub- 
lican who  should  combine  the  votes  of  the  enthusiasts  and 
the  patriots. 

Monsieur  de  Chavoncourt,  highly  respected  in  Besangon, 
was  the  representative  of  an  old  parliamentary  family ;  his 
fortune,  of  about  fifteen  thousand  francs  a  year,  was  not  an 
offense  to  anybody,  especially  as  he  had  a  son  and  three 
daughters.  With  such  a  family,  fifteen  thousand  francs  a  year 
are  a  mere  nothing.  Now  when,  under  these  circumstances, 
the  father  of  the  family  is  above  bribery,  it  would  be  hard  if 
the  electors  did  not  esteem  him.  Electors  wax  enthusiastic 
over  a  beau  ideal  of  parliamentary  virtue,  just  as  the  audience 
in  the  pit  do  at  the  representation  of  the  generous  sentiments 
they  so  little  practice. 

Madame  de  Chavoncourt,  at  this  time  a  woman  of  forty, 
was  one  of  the  beauties  of  Besan^on.  While  the  Chamber 
was  sitting,  she  lived  meagrely  in  one  of  their  country  places 
to  recoup  herself  by  economy  for  Monsieur  de  Chavoncourt' s 


A  LB  EH  T  SAVAR  ON.  379 

expenses  in  Paris.  In  the  winter  she  received  very  creditably 
once  a  week,  on  Tuesdays,  understanding  her  business  as  mis- 
tress of  the  house.  Young  Chavoncourt,  a  youth  of  two-and- 
twenty,  and  another  young  gentleman,  named  Monsieur  de 
Vauchelles,  no  richer  than  Amedee  and  his  school-friend, 
were  his  intimate  allies.  They  made  excursions  together  to 
Granvelle,  and  sometimes  went  out  shooting ;  they  were  so 
well-known  to  be  inseparable  that  they  were  invited  to  the 
country  together. 

Rosalie,  who  was  intimate  with  the  Chavoncourt  girls, 
knew  that  the  three  young  men  had  no  secrets  from  each 
other.  She  reflected  that  if  Monsieur  de  Soulas  should  repeat 
her  words,  it  would  be  to  his  two  companions.  Now,  Mon- 
sieur de  Vauchelles  had  his  matrimonial  plans,  as  Amedee  had 
his  j  he  wished  to  marry  Victoire,  the  eldest  of  the  Chavon- 
courts,  on  whom  an  old  aunt  was  to  settle  an  estate  worth 
seven  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  a  hundred  thousand  francs 
in  hard  cash,  when  the  contract  should  be  signed.  Victoire 
was  this  aunt's  god-daughter  and  favorite  niece.  Conse- 
quently, young  Chavoncourt  and  his  friend  Vauchelles  would 
be  sure  to  warn  Monsieur  de  Chavoncourt  of  the  danger  he 
was  in  from  Albert's  candidature. 

But  this  did  not  satisfy  Rosalie.  She  sent  the  prefet  of  the 
department  a  letter  written  with  her  left  hand,  signed  "A 
friend  to  Louis  Philippe,''  in  which  she  informed  him  of  the 
secret  intentions  of  Monsieur  Albert  Savaron,  pointing  out 
the  serious  support  a  Royalist  orator  might  give  to  Berryer, 
and  revealing  to  him  the  deeply  artful  course  pursued  by  the 
lawyer  during  his  two  years'  residence  at  Besan^on.  The 
pr6fet  was  a  capable  man,  a  personal  enemy  of  the  Royalist 
party,  devoted  by  conviction  to  the  government  of  July — in 
short,  one  of  those  men  of  whom,  in  the  Rue  de  Crenelle, 
the  Minister  of  the  Interior  could  say,  "  We  have  a  capital 
pr6fet  at  Besan^on."  The  prefet  read  the  letter,  and,  in 
obedience  to  its  instructions,  he  burnt  it. 


380  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

Rosalie  aimed  at  preventing  Albert's  election,  so  as  to 
keep  him  five  years  longer  at  Besan^on. 

At  that  time  an  election  was  a  fight  between  parties,  and  in 
order  to  win,  the  ministry  chose  its  ground  by  choosing  the 
moment  when  it  would  give  battle.  The  elections  were  there- 
fore not  to  take  place  for  three  months  yet.  When  a  man's 
whole  life  depends  on  an  election,  the  period  that  elapses 
between  the  issuing  of  the  writs  for  convening  the  electoral 
bodies  and  the  day  fixed  for  their  meetings  is  an  interval 
during  which  ordinary  vitality  is  suspended.  Rosalie  fully 
understood  how  much  latitude  Albert's  absorbed  state  would 
leave  her  during  these  three  months.  By  promising  Mariette 
— as  she  afterwards  confessed — to  take  both  her  and  Jerome 
into  her  service,  she  induced  the  maid  to  bring  her  all  the 
letters  Albert  might  send  to  Italy,  and  those  addressed  to  him 
from  that  country.  And  all  the  time  she  was  pondering  these 
machinations,  the  extraordinary  girl  was  working  slippers  for 
her  father  with  the  most  innocent  air  in  the  world.  She  even 
made  a  greater  display  than  ever  of  candor  and  simplicity, 
quite  understanding  how  valuable  that  candor  and  innocence 
would  be  to  her  ends. 

*'  My  daughter  grows  quite  charming !  "  said  Madame  de 
Watteville. 

Two  months  before  the  election  a  meeting  was  held  at  the 
house  of  Monsieur  Boucher  senior,  composed  of  the  contractor 
who  expected  to  get  the  work  for  the  acqueduct  for  the  Arcier 
waters ;  of  Monsieur  Boucher's  father-in-law ;  of  Monsieur 
Granet,  the  influential  man  for  whom  Savaron  had  done  a  ser- 
vice, and  who  was  to  nominate  him  as  a  candidate ;  of  Gir- 
ardet  the  lawyer ;  of  the  printer  of  the  Eastern  Review ;  and 
of  the  president  of  the  Chamber  of  Commerce.  In  fact,  the 
assembly  consisted  of  twenty-seven  persons  in  all,  men  who  in 
the  provinces  are  regarded  as  bigwigs.-  Each  man  represented 
on  an  average  six  votes,  but  in  estimating  their  value  they  said 
ten,  for  men  always  begin  by  exaggerating  their  own  influ- 


ALBERT  S AVAR  ON.  381 

ence.  Among  these  twenty-seven  was  one  who  was  wholly 
devoted  to  the  prefet,  one  false  brother  who  secretly  looked 
for  some  favor  from  the  ministry,  either  for  himself  or  for 
some  one  belonging  to  him. 

At  this  preliminary  meeting,  it  was  agreed  that  Savaron  the 
lawyer  should  be  named  as  candidate,  a  motion  received  with 
such  enthusiasm  as  no  one  looked  for  from  Besangon.  Albert, 
waiting  at  home  for  Alfred  Boucher  to  fetch  him,  was  chatting 
with  the  Abbe  de  Grancey,  who  was  interested  in  this  absorb- 
ing ambition.  Albert  had  appreciated  the  priest's  vast  politi- 
cal capacities;  and  the  priest,  touched  by  the  young  man's 
entreaties,  had  been  willing  to  become  his  guide  and  adviser 
in  this  culminating  struggle.  The  chapter  did  not  love  Mon- 
sieur de  Chavoncourt,  for  it  was  his  wife's  brother-in-law,  as 
president  of  the  Tribunal,  who  had  lost  the  famous  suit  for 
them  in  the  lower  court. 

"You  are  betrayed,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  shrewd  and 
worthy  abbe,  in  that  gentle,  calm  voice  which  old  priests 
acquire. 

"  Betrayed  !  "  cried  the  lawyer,  struck  to  the  heart. 

"By  whom  I  know  not  at  all,"  the  priest  replied.  "But 
at  the  prefecture  your  plans  are  known,  and  your  hand  read 
like  a  book.  At  this  moment  I  have  no  advice  to  give  you. 
Such  affairs  need  consideration.  As  for  this  evening,  take 
the  bull  by  the  horns,  anticipate  the  blow.  Tell  them  all 
your  previous  life,  and  thus  you  will  mitigate  the  effect  of  the 
discovery  on  the  good  folks  of  Besan§on." 

"  Oh,  I  was  prepared  for  it,"  said  Albert  in  a  broken  voice. 

"  You  would  not  benefit  by  my  advice ;  you  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  making  an  impression  at  the  Hotel  de  Rupt ;  you 
do  not  know  the  advantage  you  would  have  gained " 

"What?" 

"  The  unanimous  support  of  the  Royalists,  an  immediate 
readiness  to  go  to  the  election — in  short,  above  a  hundred 
votes.     Adding  to  these  what,  amon^  ourselves,  we  call  the 


382  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

ecclesiastical  vote,  though  you  were  not  yet  nominated,  you 
were  master  of  the  votes  by  ballot.  Under  such  circumstances, 
a  man  may  temporize,  may  make  his  way ' ' 

Alfred  Boucher  when  he  came  in,  full  of  enthusiasm,  to 
announce  the  decision  of  the  preliminary  meeting,  found  the 
vicar-general  and  the  lawyer  cold,  calm,  and  grave. 

"Good-night,  Monsieur  1' Abbe,"  said  Albert.  "We  will 
talk  of  your  business  at  greater  length  when  the  elections  are 
over. ' ' 

And  he  took  Alfred's  arm,  after  pressing  Monsieur  de 
Grancey's  hand  with  meaning.  The  priest  looked  at  the  am- 
bitious man,  whose  face  at  that  moment  wore  the  lofty  expres- 
sion which  a  general  may  have  when  he  hears  the  first  gun 
fired  for  a  battle.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  left  the 
room,  saying  to  himself,  "  What  a  priest  he  would  make  !  " 

Eloquence  is  not  at  the  bar.  The  pleader  rarely  puts  forth 
the  real  powers  of  his  soul;  if  he  did,  he  would  die  of  it  in  a 
few  years.  Eloquence  is,  nowadays,  rarely  in  the  pulpit ;  but 
it  is  found  on  certain  occasions  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies, 
when  an  ambitious  man  stakes  all  to  win  all,  or,  stung  by  a 
myriad  of  darts,  at  a  given  moment  bursts  into  speech.  But  it 
is  still  more  certainly  found  in  some  privileged  beings,  at  the 
inevitable  hour  when  their  claims  must  either  triumph  or  be 
wrecked,  and  when  they  are  forced  to  speak.  Thus  at  this 
meeting,  Albert  Savaron,  feeling  the  necessity  of  winning  him- 
self some  supporters,  displayed  all  the  faculties  of  his  soul  and 
the  resources  of  his  intellect.  He  entered  the  room  well, 
without  awkwardness  or  arrogance,  without  weakness,  without 
cowardice,  quite  gravely,  and  was  not  dismayed  at  finding 
himself  among  twenty  or  thirty  men.  The  news  of  the  meet- 
ing and  of  its  determination  had  already  brought  a  few  docile 
sheep  to  follow  the  bell. 

Before  listening  to  Monsieur  Boucher,  who  was  about  to 
deluge  him  with  a  speech  announcing  the  decision  of  the 
Boucher  Committee,  Albert  begged  for  silence,  and,  as  he 


ALBERT  SAVARON. 


383 


shook  hands  with  Monsieur  Boucher,  tried  to  warn  him,  by  a 
sign,  of  an  unexpected  danger. 

"  My  young  friend,  Alfred  Boucher,  has  just  announced  to 
me  the  honor  you  have  done  me.  But  before  that  decision  is 
irrevocable,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  I  think  that  I  ought  to  explain 
to  you  who  and  what  your  candidate  is,  so  as  to  leave  you  free 
to  take  back  your  word  if  my  declarations  should  disturb  your 
conscience ! ' ' 

This  exordium  was  followed  by  profound  silence.  Some 
of  the  men  thought  it  showed  a  noble  impulse. 

Albert  gave  a  sketch  of  his  previous  career,  telling  them  his 
real  name,  his  action  under  the  Restoration,  and  revealing  him- 
self as  a  new  man  since  his  arrival  at  Besan^on,  while  pledging 
himself  for  the  future.  This  address  held  his  hearers  breath- 
less, it  was  said.  These  men,  all  with  different  interests,  were 
spellbound  by  the  brilliant  eloquence  that  flowed  at  boiling 
heat  from  the  heart  and  soul  of  this  ambitious  spirit.  Admira- 
tion silenced  reflection.  Only  one  thing  was  clear — the  thing 
which  Albert  wished  to  get  into  their  heads — 

Was  it  not  far  better  for  the  town  to  have  one  of  those  men 
who  are  born  to  govern  society  at  large  than  a  mere  voting- 
machine  ?  A  statesman  carries  power  with  him.  A  common' 
place  deputy,  however  incorruptible,  is  but  a  conscience. 
What  a  glory  for  Provence  to  have  found  a  Mirabeau,  to 
return  the  only  statesman  since  1830  that  the  revolution  of 
July  had  produced ! 

Under  the  pressure  of  this  eloquence,  all  the  audience 
believed  it  great  enough  to  become  a  splendid  political  instru- 
ment in  the  hands  of  their  representative.  They  all  saw  in 
Albert  Savaron,  Savarus  the  great  Minister.  And,  reading  the 
secret  calculations  of  his  constituents,  the  clever  candidate 
gave  them  to  understand  that  they  would  be  the  first  to  enjoy 
the  right  of  profiting  by  his  influence. 

This  confession  of  faith,  this  ambitious  programme,  this 
retrospect  of  his  life  and  character  was,  according  to  the  only 


384  ALBERT  SA  VARON. 

man  present  who  was  capable  of  judging  of  Savaron  (he  has 
since  become  one  of  the  leading  men  of  Besan^on),  a  master- 
piece of  skill  and  of  feeling,  of  fervor,  interest,  and  fascina- 
tion. This  whirlwind  carried  away  the  electors.  Never  had 
any  man  had  such  a  triumph.  But,  unfortunately,  speech, 
a  weapon  only  for  close  warfare,  has  only  an  immediate  effect. 
Reflection  kills  the  word  when  the  word  ceases  to  overpower 
reflection.  If  the  votes  had  then  been  taken,  Albert's  name 
would  undoubtedly  have  come  out  of  the  ballot-box.  At  the 
moment,  he  was  conqueror.  But  he  must  conquer  every  day 
for  two  months. 

Albert  went  home  quivering.  The  townsfolk  had  applauded 
him,  and  he  had  achieved  the  great  point  of  silencing  before- 
hand the  malignant  talk  to  which  his  early  career  might  give 
rise.  The  commercial  interest  of  Besangon  had  unanimously 
nominated  the  lawyer,  Albert  Savaron  de  Savarus,  as  its 
candidate. 

Alfred  Boucher's  enthusiasm,  at  first  infectious,  presently 
became  blundering. 

The  pr6fet,  alarmed  by  this  success,  set  to  work  to  count 
the  ministerial  votes,  and  contrived  to  have  a  secret  interview 
with  Monsieur  de  Chavoncourt,  so  as  to  effect  a  coalition  in 
their  common  interests.  Every  day,  without  Albert  being 
able  to  discover  how,  the  voters  in  the  Boucher  Committee 
diminished  in  number. 

Nothing  could  resist  the  slow  grinding  of  the  prefecture. 
Three  or  four  clever  men  would  say  to  Albert's  clients,  **  Will 
the  deputy  defend  you  and  win  your  lawsuits  ?  Will  he  give 
you  advice,  draw  up  your  contracts,  arrange  your  compromises? 
He  will  be  your  slave  for  five  years  longer,  if,  instead  of 
returning  him  to  the  Chamber,  you  only  hold  out  the  hope 
of  his  going  there  five  years  hence." 

This  calculation  did  Savaron  all  the  more  mischief,  because 
the  wives  of  some  of  the  merchants  had  already  made  it. 
The  parties  interested  in  the  matter  of  the  bridge  and  that  of 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  385 

the  water  from  Arcier  could  not  hold  out  against  a  talking-to 
from  a  clever  ministerialist,  who  proved  to  them  that  their 
safety  lay  at  the  prefecture,  and  not  in  the  hands  of  an  ambi- 
tious man.  Each  day  was  a  check  for  Savaron,  though  each 
day  the  battle  was  led  by  him  and  fought  by  his  lieutenants — 
a  battle  of  words,  speeches,  and  proceedings.  He  dared  not 
go  to  the  vicar-general,  and  the  vicar-general  never  showed 
himself.  Albert  rose  and  went  to  bed  in  a  fever,  his  brain 
on  fire. 

At  last  the  day  dawned  of  the  first  struggle,  practically  the 
show  of  hands  ;  the  votes  are  counted,  the  candidates  estimate 
their  chances,  and  clever  men  can  prophesy  their  failure  or 
success.  It  is  a  decent  hustings,  without  the  mob,  but  for- 
midable ;  agitation,  though  it  is  not  allowed  any  physical 
display,  as  it  is  in  England,  is  not  the  less  profound.  The 
English  fight  these  battles  with  their  fists,  the  French  with 
hard  words.  Our  neighbors  have  a  scrimmage,  the  French 
try  their  fate  by  cold  combinations  calmly  worked  out.  This 
particular  political  business  is  carried  out  in  opposition  to  the 
character  of  the  two  nations. 

The  Radical  party  named  their  candidate  ;  Monsieur  de 
Chavoncourt  came  forward ;  then  Albert  appeared,  and  was 
accused  by  the  Chavoncourt  Committee  and  the  Radicals  of 
being  an  uncompromising  man  of  the  Right,  a  second  Berryer. 
The  ministry  had  their  candidate,  a  stalking-horse,  useful 
only  to  receive  the  purely  ministerial  votes.  The  votes,  thus 
divided,  gave  no  result.  The  Republican  candidate  had 
twenty,  the  Ministry  got  fifty,  Albert  had  seventy,  Monsieur 
de  Chavoncourt  obtained  sixty-seven.  But  the  pr^fet's  party 
had  perfidiously  made  thirty  of  its  most  devoted  adherents 
vote  for  Albert,  so  as  to  deceive  the  enemy.  The  votes  for 
Monsieur  de  Chavoncourt,  added  to  the  eighty  votes— the 
real  number— at  the  disposal  of  the  prefecture  would  carry 
the  election,  if  only  the  pr6fet  could  succeed  in  gaining  over 
a  few  of  the  Radicals.  A  hundred  and  sixty  votes  were  not 
25 


386  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

recorded :  those  of  Monsieur  de  Grancey's  following  and  the 
Legitimists. 

The  show  of  hands  at  an  election,  like  a  dress  rehearsal  at 
a  theatre,  is  the  most  deceptive  thing  in  the  world.  Albert 
Savaron  came  home,  putting  a  brave  face  on  the  matter,  but 
half-dead.  He  had  had  the  wit,  the  genius,  or  the  good-luck 
to  gain,  within  the  last  fortnight,  two  staunch  supporters — 
Girardet's  father-in-law  and  a  very  shrewd  old  merchant  to 
whom  Monsieur  de  Grancey  had  sent  him.  These  two  worthy 
men,  his  self-appointed  spies,  affected  to  be  Albert's  most 
ardent  opponents  in  the  hostile  camp.  Towards  the  end  of 
the  show  of  hands  they  informed  Savaron,  through  the 
medium  of  Monsieur  Boucher,  that  thirty  voters,  unknown, 
were  secretly  working  against  him  in  his  party,  playing  the 
same  sharp  trick  that  they  were  playing  for  his  benefit  on  the 
other  side. 

A  criminal  marching  to  execution  could  not  suffer  as 
Albert  suffered  as  he  went  home  from  the  hall  where  his  fate 
was  at  stake.  The  despairing  lover  could  endure  no  compan- 
ionship. He  walked  through  the  streets  alone,  between  eleven 
o'clock  and  midnight.  At  one  in  the  morning,  Albert,  to 
whom  sleep  had  been  unknown  for  the  past  three  days,  was 
sitting  in  his  library  in  a  deep  armchair,  his  face  as  pale  as  if 
he  were  dying,  his  hands  hanging  limp,  in  a  forlorn  attitude 
worthy  of  the  Magdalen.  Tears  hung  on  his  long  lashes, 
tears  that  dim  the  eyes,  but  do  not  fall ;  fierce  thoughi  drinks 
them  up,  the  fire  of  the  soul  consumes  them.  Alone,  he  might 
weep.  And  then,  under  the  kiosk,  he  saw  a  white  figure, 
which  reminded  him  of  Francesca. 

'•  And  for  three  months  I  have  had  no  letter  from  her  ! 
What  has  become  of  her  ?  I  have  not  written  for  two  months, 
but  I  warned  her.  Is  she  ill  ?  Oh  my  love  !  My  life  !  Will 
you  ever  know  what  I  have  gone  through  ?  What  a  wretched 
constitution  is  mine  !  Have  I  an  aneurism?"  he  asked  him- 
self, feeling  his  heart  beat  so  violently  that  its  pulses  seemed 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  387 

audible  in  the  silence  like  little  grains  of  sand  dropping  on  a 
big  drum, 

At  this  moment  three  distinct  taps  sounded  on  his  door ; 
Albert  hastened  to  open  it,  and  almost  fainted  with  joy  at 
seeing  the  vicar-general's  cheerful  and  triumphant  mien. 
Without  a  word,  he  threw  his  arms  round  the  Abbe  de  Grancey, 
held  him  fast,  and  clasped  him  closely,  letting  his  head  fall  on 
the  old  man's  shoulder.  He  was  a  child  again ;  he  cried  as 
he  had  cried  on  hearing  that  Francesca  Soderini  was  a  married 
woman.  He  betrayed  his  weakness  to  no  one  but  to  this 
priest,  on  whose  face  shone  the  light  of  hope.  The  priest  had 
been  sublime,  and  as  shrewd  as  he  was  sublime. 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  abbe,  but  you  come  at  one  of  those 
moments  when  the  man  vanishes,  for  you  are  not  to  think  me 
vulgarly  ambitious." 

"  Oh  !  I  know,"  replied  the  abb6.  "  You  wrote  ^Ambition 
for  love's  sake!'  Ah!  my  son,  it  was  love  in  despair  that 
made  me  a  priest  in  1 786,  at  the  age  of  two-and-twenty.  In 
1788  I  was  in  charge  of  a  parish.  I  know  life.  I  have  refused 
three  bishoprics  already  ;  I  mean  to  die  at  Besangon." 

"  Come  and  see  her  !  "  cried  Savaron,  seizing  a  candle,  and 
leading  the  abbe  into  the  handsome  room  where  hung  the 
portrait  of  the  Duchess  d'Argaiolo,  which  he  lighted  up. 

"  She  is  one  nf  those  women  who  are  born  to  reign  !  "  said 
the  vicar-general,  understanding  how  great  an  affection  Albert 
showed  him  by  this  mark  of  confidence.  '•'  But  there  is  pride 
on  that  brow ;  it  is  implacable  ;  she  would  never  forgive  an 
insult  !  It  is  the  Archangel  Michael,  the  angel  of  execution, 
the  inexorable  angel.  '  All  or  nothing  '  is  the  motto  of  this 
type  of  angel.  There  is  something  divinely  pitiless  in  that 
head." 

"  You  have  guessed  well,"  cried  Savaron.  "  But,  my  dear 
abb6,  for  more  than  twelve  years  now  she  has  reigned  over 
my  life,  and  I  have  not  a  single  thought  for  which  to  blame 
myself " 


388  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

"  Ah  !  if  you  could  only  say  the  same  of  God  !  "  said  the 
priest  with  simplicity.  "  Now,  to  talk  of  your  affairs.  For 
ten  days  I  have  been  at  work  for  you.  If  you  are  a  real  poli- 
tician, this  time  you  will  follow  my  advice.  You  would  not 
be  where  you  are  now  if  you  would  have  gone  to  the  Watte- 
villes  when  I  first  told  you.  But  you  must  go  there  to- 
morrow ;  I  will  take  you  in  the  evening.  The  Rouxey  estates 
are  in  danger ;  the  case  must  be  defended  within  three  days. 
The  election  will  not  be  over  in  three  days.  They  will  take 
good  care  not  to  appoint  examiners  the  first  day.  There 
will  be  several  voting  days,  and  you  will  be  elected  by 
ballot " 

**  How  can  that  be?  "  asked  Savaron. 

*'  By  winning  the  Rouxey  lawsuit  you  will  gain  eighty 
Legitimist  votes ;  add  them  to  the  thirty  I  can  command,  and 
you  have  a  hundred  and  ten.  Then,  as  twenty  remain  to 
you  of  the  Boucher  Committee,  you  will  have  a  hundred  and 
thirty  in  all." 

"Well,"  said  Albert,  "we  must  get  seventy-five  more." 

"Yes,"  said  the  priest,  "since  all  the  rest  are  ministerial. 
But,  my  son,  you  have  two  hundred  votes,  and  the  prefecture 
no  more  than  a  hundred  and  eighty." 

"  I  have  two  hundred  votes  ?  "  said  Albert,  standing  stupid 
with  amazement,  after  starting  to  his  feet  as  if  shot  up  by  a 
spring. 

"You  have  those  of  Monsieur  de  Chavoncourt,"  said  the  abb6. 

"How?"  said  Albert. 

"You  will  marry  Mademoiselle  Sidonie  de  Chavoncourt." 

"  Never !  " 

"You  will  marry  Mademoiselle  Sidonie  de  Chavoncourt," 
the  priest  repeated  coldly. 

"But  you  see — she  is  inexorable,"  said  Albert,  pointing  to 
Francesca. 

"  You  will  marry  Mademoiselle  Sidonie  de  Chavoncourt," 
said  the  abb6  calmly  for  the  third  time. 


ALBERT  S AVAR  ON.  339 

This  time  Albert  understood.  The  vicar-general  would  not 
be  implicated  in  the  scheme  which  at  last  smiled  on  the 
despairing  politician.  A  word  more  would  have  compromised 
the  priest's  dignity  and  honor. 

"To-morrow  evening  at  the  Hotel  de  Rupt  you  will  meet 
Madame  de  Chavoncourt  and  her  second  daughter.  You  can 
thank  her  beforehand  for  what  she  is  going  to  do  for  you,  and 
tell  her  that  your  gratitude  is  unbounded,  that  you  are  hers 
body  and  soul,  that  henceforth  your  future  is  that  of  her 
family.  You  are  quite  disinterested,  for  you  have  so  much 
confidence  in  yourself  that  you  regard  the  nomination  as 
deputy  as  a  sufficient  fortune. 

"You  will  have  a  struggle  with  Madame  de  Chavoncourt; 
she  will  want  you  to  pledge  your  word.  All  your  future  life, 
my  son,  lies  in  that  evening.  But,  understand  clearly,  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  am  answerable  only  for  the  Legitimist 
voters ;  I  have  secured  Madame  de  Watteville,  and  that  means 
all  the  aristocracy  of  Besan^on.  Am6d6e  de  Soulas  and  Vau- 
chelles,  who  will  both  vote  for  you,  have  won  over  the  young 
men  ;  Madame  de  Watteville  will  get  the  old  ones.  As  to 
my  electors,  they  are  infallible." 

"And  who  on  earth  has  gained  over  Madame  de  Chavon- 
court?" asked  Savaron. 

"  Ask  me  no  questions,"  replied  the  abbe.  "  Monsieur  de 
Chavoncourt,  who  has  three  daughters  to  marry,  is  not  capable 
of  increasing  his  wealth.  Though  Vauchelles  marries  the 
eldest  without  anything  from  her  father,  because  her  old  aunt 
is  to  settle  something  on  her,  what  is  to  become  of  the  two 
others?  Sidonie  is  sixteen,  and  your  ambition  is  as  good  as 
a  gold  mine.  Some  one  has  told  Madame  de  Chavoncourt 
that  she  will  do  better  by  getting  her  daughter  married  than 
by  sending  her  husband  to  waste  his  money  in  Paris.  That 
some  one  manages  Madame  de  Chavoncourt,  and  Madame  de 
Chavoncourt  manages  her  husband." 

"  That  is  enough,  my  dear  abbe.     I  understand.     When 


390  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

once  I  am  returned  as  deputy,  I  have  somebody's  fortune  to 
make,  and  by  making  it  large  enough  I  shall  be  released  from 
my  promise.  In  me  you  have  a  son,  a  man  who  will  owe  his 
happiness  to  you.  Great  heavens  !  what  have  I  done  to 
deserve  so  true  a  friend  ?" 

"You  won  a  triumph  for  the  chapter,"  said  the  vicar- 
general,  smiling.  "  Now,  as  to  all  this,  be  as  secret  as  the 
tomb.  We  are  nothing,  we  have  done  nothing.  If  we  were 
known  to  have  meddled  in  election  matters,  we  should  be 
eaten  up  alive  by  the  Puritans  of  the  Left — who  do  worse — 
and  blamed  by  some  of  our  own  party,  who  want  everything. 
Madame  de  Chavoncourt  has  no  suspicion  of  my  share  in  all 
this.  I  have  confided  in  no  one  but  Madame  de  Watteville, 
whom  we  may  trust  as  we  trust  ourselves." 

"I  will  bring  the  Duchess  to  you  to  be  blessed  !  "cried 
Savaron. 

After  seeing  out  the  old  priest,  Albert  went  to  bed  in  the 
swaddling-clothes  of  power. 

Next  evening,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  by  nine  o'clock 
Madame  la  Baronne  de  Watteville's  rooms  were  crowded  by  the 
aristocracy  of  Besan9on  in  convocation  extraordinary.  They 
were  discussing  the  exceptional  step  of  going  to  the  poll,  to 
oblige  the  daughter  of  the  de  Rupts.  It  was  known  that  the 
former  master  of  appeals,  the  secretary  of  one  of  the  most 
faithful  ministers  under  the  elder  branch,  was  to  be  presented 
that  evening.  Madame  de  Ghavoncourt  was  there  with  her 
second  daughter  Sidonie,  exquisitely  dressed,  while  her  elder 
sister,  secure  of  her  lover,  had  not  indulged  in  any  of  the  arts 
of  the  toilet.  In  country  towns  these  little  things  are  re- 
marked. The  Abbe  de  Grancey's  fine  and  clever  head  was 
to  be  seen  moving  from  group  to  group,  listening  to  every- 
thing, seeming  to  be  apart  from  it  all,  but  uttering  those 
incisive  phrases  which  sum  up  a  question  and  direct  the  issue, 

**  If  the  elder  branch  were  to  return,"  said  he  to  an  old 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  ggj 

Statesman  of  seventy,  ''what  politicians  would  they  find?" 
"  Berryer,  alone  on  his  bench,  does  not  know  which  way  to 
turn  ;  if  he  had  sixty  votes,  he  would  often  scotch  the  wheels 
of  the  government  and  upset  ministries!"  "The  Due  de 
Fitz- James  is  to  be  nominated  at  Toulouse."  "You  will 
enable  Monsieur  de  Watteville  to  win  his  lawsuit."  "  If  you 
vote  for  Monsieur  Savaron,  the  Republicans  will  vote  with  you 
rather  than  with  the  Moderates  !  "  etc.,  etc. 

At  nine  o'clock  Albert  had  not  arrived.  Madame  de 
Watteville  was  disposed  to  regard  such  delay  as  an  imperti- 
nence. 

"  My  dear  Baroness,"  said  Madame  de  Chavoncourt,  "  do 
not  let  such  serious  issues  turn  on  such  a  trifle.  The  varnish 
on  his  boots  is  not  dry — or  a  consultation,  perhaps,  detains 
Monsieur  de  Savaron." 

Rosalie  shot  a  side  glance  at  Madame  de  Chavoncourt. 
"  She  is  very  lenient  to  Monsieur  de  Savaron,"  she  whis- 
pered to  her  mother. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  Baroness,  with  a  smile,  "there  is  a 
question  of  a  marriage  between  Sidonie  and  Monsieur  de 
Savaron." 

Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  hastily  went  to  a  window  look- 
ing out  over  the  garden. 

At  ten  o'clock  Albert  de  Savaron  had  not  yet  appeared. 
The  storm  that  threatened  now  burst.  Some  of  the  gentlemen 
sat  down  to  cards,  finding  the  thing  intolerable.  The  Abbe 
de  Grancey,  who  did  not  know  what  to  think,  went  to  the 
window  where  Rosalie  was  hidden,  and  exclaimed  aloud  in 
his  amazement,  "  He  must  be  dead  !  " 

The  vicar-general  stepped  out  into  the  garden,  followed 
by  Monsieur  de  Watteville  and  his  daughter,  and  they  all 
three  went  up  to  the  kiosk.  In  Albert's  rooms  all  was  dark ; 
not  a  light  was  to  be  seen. 

"Jerome!  "  cried  Rosalie,  seeing  the  servant  in  the  yard 
below.    The  abbe  looked  at  her  with  astonishment.    "  Where 


392  ALBERT  SAVARON 

in  the  world  is  your  master?  "  she  asked  the  man,  who  came 
to  the  foot  of  the  wall. 

*'  Gone — in  a  post-chaise,  mademoiselle." 

"  He  is  ruined  !  "  exclaimed  the  Abbe  de  Grancey,  "  or  he 
is  happy  !  " 

The  joy  of  triumph  was  not  so  effectually  concealed  on 
Rosalie's  face  that  tiie  vicar-general  could  not  detect  it.  He 
affected  to  see  nothing. 

"  What  can  this  girl  have  had  to  do  with  this  business?  " 
he  asked  himself. 

They  all  three  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where  Mon- 
sieur de  Watteville  announced  the  strange,  the  extraordinary, 
the  prodigious  news  of  the  lawyer's  departure,  without  any 
reason  assigned  for  his  evasion.  By  half-past  eleven  only 
fifteen  persons  remained,  among  them  Madame  de  Chavan- 
court  and  the  Abbe  de  Godenars,  another  vicar-general,  a 
man  of  about  forty,  who  hoped  for  a  bishopric  ;  the  two  Cha- 
voncourt  girls  and  Monsieur  de  Vauchelles,  the  Abbe  de 
Grancey,  Rosalie,  Amedee  de  Soulas,  and  a  retired  magis- 
trate, one  of  the  most  influential  members  of  the  upper  circle 
of  Besan^on,  who  had  been  very  eager  for  Albert's  election. 
The  Abbe  de  Grancey  sat  down  by  the  Baroness  in  such  a 
position  as  to  watch  Rosalie,  whose  face,  usually  pale,  wore  a 
feverish  flush. 

"  What  can  have  happened  to  Monsieur  de  Savaron  ?  "  said 
Madame  de  Chavoncourt. 

At  this  moment  a  servant  in  livery  brought  in  a  letter  for 
the  Abb6  de  Grancey  on  a  silver  tray. 

"Pray  read  it,"  said  the  Baroness  de  Watteville,  with 
manifest  interest. 

The  vicar-general  read  the  letter ;  he  saw  Rosalie  suddenly 
turn  as  white  as  her  kerchief. 

"  She  recognizes  the  writing,"  said  he  to  himself,  after 
glancing  at  the  girl  over  his  spectacles.  He  folded  up  the 
letter,  and  calmly  put  it  in  his  pocket  without  a  word.     In 


SHE   WAS  ONE  OF  THOSE   WOMEN    WHO  ARE  BORN  TO  REJCN  /' 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  393 

three  minutes  he  had  met  three  looks  from  Rosalie  which  were 
enough  to  make  him  guess  everything, 

"  She  is  in  love  with  Albert  Savaron  !  "  thought  the  vicar- 
general. 

He  rose  and  took  leave.  He  was  going  towards  the  door 
when,  in  the  next  room,  he  was  overtaken  by  Rosalie,  who 
said — 

"  Monsieur  de  Grancey,  it  was  from  Albert !  " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  it  was  his  writing,  to  recognize  it 
from  so  far  ?  " 

The  girl's  reply,  caught  as  she  was  in  the  toils  of  her  impa- 
tience and  rage,  seemed  to  the  abbe  sublime. 

"I  love  him!  What  is  the  matter?"  she  said  after  a 
pause. 

"  He  gives  up  the  election." 

Rosalie  put  her  finger  to  her  lip. 

"I  ask  you  to  be  as  secret  as  if  it  were  a  confession," 
said  she  before  returning  to  the  drawing-room.  "If  there 
is  an  end  of  the  election,  there  is  an  end  of  the  marriage  with 
Sidonie." 

In  the  morning,  on  her  way  to  mass.  Mademoiselle  de  Wat- 
teville  heard  from  Mariette  some  of  the  circumstances  which 
had  prompted  Albert's  disappearance  at  the  most  critical  mo- 
ment of  his  life. 

"  Mademoiselle,  an  old  gentleman  from  Paris  arrived  yes- 
terday morning  at  the  Hotel  National ;  he  came  in  his  own 
carriage  with  four  horses,  and  a  courier  in  front,  and  a  servant. 
Indeed,  Jerome,  who  saw  the  carriage  returning,  declares  he 
could  only  be  a  prince  or  a  milord^ 

"  Was  there  a  coronet  on  the  carriage?  "  asked  Rosalie. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Mariette.  "  Just  as  two  was  striking 
he  came  to  call  on  Monsieur  Savaron,  and  sent  in  his  card ; 
and  when  he  saw  it,  Jerome  says  Monsieur  turned  as  pale  as  a 
sheet,  and  said  he  was  to  be  shown  in.     As  he  himself  locked 


394  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

the  door,  it  is  impossible  to  tell  what  the  old  gentleman  and 
the  lawyer  said  to  each  other  ;  but  they  were  together  above 
an  hour,  and  then  the  old  gentleman,  with  the  lawyer,  called 
up  his  servant.  Jerome  saw  the  servant  go  out  again  with  an 
immense  package,  four  feet  long,  which  looked  like  a  great 
painting  on  canvas.  The  old  gentleman  had  in  his  hand  a 
large  parcel  of  papers.  Monsieur  Savaron  was  paler  than 
death,  and  he,  so  proud,  so  dignified,  was  in  a  state  to  be 
pitied.  But  he  treated  the  old  gentleman  so  respectfully  that 
he  could  not  have  been  politer  to  the  king  himself.  Jerome 
and  Monsieur  Albert  Savaron  escorted  the  gentleman  to  his 
carriage,  which  was  standing  with  the  horses  in.  The  courier 
started  on  the  stroke  of  three. 

"  Monsieur  Savaron  went  straight  to  the  prefecture,  and 
from  that  to  Monsieur  Gentillet,  who  sold  him  the  old  travel- 
ing carriage  that  used  to  belong  to  Madame  de  Saint- Vier 
before  she  died ;  then  he  ordered  post-horses  for  six  o'clock. 
He  went  home  to  pack ;  no  doubt  he  wrote  a  lot  of  letters ; 
finally,  he  settled  everything  with  Monsieur  Girardet,  who 
went  to  him  and  stayed  till  seven.  Jerome  carried  a  note  to 
Monsieur  Boucher,  with  whom  his  master  was  to  have  dined ; 
and  then,  at  half-past  seven,  the  lawyer  set  out,  leaving 
Jerome  with  three  months'  wages,  and  telling  him  to  find 
another  place. 

"  He  left  his  keys  with  Monsieur  Girardet,  whom  he  took 
home,  and  at  his  house,  Jerome  says,  he  took  a  plate  of  soup, 
for  at  half-past  seven  Monsieur  Girardet  had  not  yet  dined. 
When  Monsieur  Savaron  got  into  the  carriage  again  he  looked 
like  death.  Jerome,  who,  of  course,  saw  his  master  off,  heard 
him  tell  the  postillion  'The  Geneva  Road  !  '" 

"  Did  Jerome  ask  the  name  of  the  stranger  at  the  Hotel 
National  ?" 

"As  the  old  gentleman  did  not  mean  to  stay,  he  was  not 
asked  for  it.  The  servant,  by  his  orders  no  doubt,  pretended 
not  to  speak  French." 


ALBERT  SAVARON. 


395 


"  And  the  letter  which  came  so  late  to  tlie  Abbe  de  Gran- 
cey?"  said  Rosalie. 

"  It  was  Monsieur  Girardet,  no  doubt,  who  ought  to  have 
delivered  it ;  but  Jerome  says  that  poor  Monsieur  Girardet, 
who  was  much  attached  to  lawyer  Savaron,  was  as  much  upset 
as  he  was.  So  he  who  came  so  mysteriously,  as  Mademoiselle 
Galard  says,  is  gone  away  just  as  mysteriously." 

After  hearing  this  narrative,  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville 
fell  into  a  brooding  and  absent  mood,  wliich  everybody  could 
see.  It  is  useless  to  say  anything  of  the  commotion  that  arose 
in  Besan^on  on  the  disappearance  of  Monsieur  Savaron.  It 
was  understood  that  the  prefect  had  obliged  him  with  the 
greatest  readiness  by  giving  him  at  once  a  passport  across  the 
frontier,  for  he  was  thus  quit  of  his  only  opponent.  Next  day 
Monsieur  de  Chavoncourt  was  carried  to  the  top  by  a  majority 
of  a  hundred  and  forty  votes. 

"Jack  is  gone  by  the  way  he  came,"  said  an  elector  on 
hearing  of  Albert  Savaron's  flight. 

This  event  lent  weight  to  the  prevailing  prejudice  at 
Besan^on  against  strangers ;  indeed,  two  years  previously  they 
had  received  confirmation  from  the  affair  of  the  Republican 
newspaper.  Ten  days  later  Albert  de  Savaron  was  never 
spoken  of  again.  Only  three  persons — Girardet  the  attorney, 
the  vicar-general,  and  Rosalie — were  seriously  affected  by  his 
disappearance.  Girardet  knew  that  the  white-haired  stranger 
was  Prince  Soderini,  for  he  had  seen  his  card,  and  he  told  the 
vicar-general ;  but  Rosalie,  better  informed  than  either  of 
them,  had  known  for  three  months  past  that  the  Due  d'Argaiolo 
was  dead. 

In  the  month  of  April,  1836,  no  one  had  had  any  news 
from  or  of  Albert  de  Savaron.  Jerome  and  Mariette  were  to 
be  married,  but  the  Baroness  confidentially  desired  her  maid 
to  wait  till  her  daughter  was  married,  saying  that  the  two 
weddings  might  take  place  at  the  same  time. 

"It   is   time  that  Rosalie  should   be  married,"  said  the 


396  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

Baroness  one  day  to  Monsieur  de  Watteville.  "  She  is  nine- 
teen, and  she  is  fearfully  altered  in  these  last  months." 

"I  do  not  know  what  ails  her,"  said  the  Baron. 

"When  fathers  do  not  know  what  ails  their  daughters, 
mothers  can  guess,"  said  the  Baroness;  "we  must  get  her 
married." 

"I  am  quite  willing,"  said  the  Baron.  "I  shall  give  her 
Les  Rouxey  now  that  the  court  has  settled  our  quarrel  with  the 
authorities  of  Riceys  by  fixing  the  boundary  line  at  three 
hundred  feet  up  the  side  of  the  Dent  de  Vilard.  I  am  having 
a  trench  made  to  collect  all  the  water  and  carry  it  into  the 
lake.     The  village  did  not  appeal,  so  the  decision  is  final." 

"  It  has  never  yet  occurred  to  you,"  said  Madame  de 
Watteville,  "  that  this  decision  cost  me  thirty  thousand  francs 
handed  over  to  Chantonnit.  That  peasant  would  take  noth- 
ing else ;  he  sold  us  peace.  If  you  give  away  Les  Rouxey, 
you  will  have  nothing  left,"  said  the  Baroness. 

"I  do  not  need  much,"  said  the  Baron;  "I  am  breaking 
up." 

"  You  eat  like  an  ogre  !  " 

"  Just  so.  But  however  much  I  may  eat,  I  feel  my  legs 
get  weaker  and  weaker " 

"It  is  from  working  the  lathe,"  said  his  wife. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  he. 

"We  will  marry  Rosalie  to  Monsieur  de  Soulas ;  if  you 
give  her  Les  Rouxey,  keep  the  life  interest.  I  will  give  them 
fifteen  thousand  francs  a  year  in  the  funds.  Our  children  can 
live  here;  I  do  not  see  that  they  are  much  to  be  pitied." 

"  No.  I  shall  give  them  Les  Rouxey  out  and  out.  Rosalie 
is  fond  of  Les  Rouxey." 

"  You  are  a  queer  man  with  your  daughter  !  It  does  not 
occur  to  you  to  ask  me  if  I  am  fond  of  Les  Rouxey." 

Rosalie,  at  once  sent  for,  was  informed  that  she  was  to 
marry  Monsieur  de  Soulas  one  day  early  in  the  month  of 
May. 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  397 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  mother,  and  to  you  too, 
father,  for  having  thought  of  settling  me ;  but  I  do  not  mean 
to  marry  ;  I  am  very  happy  with  you." 

"  Mere  speeches  I  "  said  the  Baroness.  "  You  are  not  in 
love  with  Monsieur  de  Soulas,  that  is  all." 

"  If  you  insist  on  the  plain  truth,  I  will  never  marry  Mon- 
sieur de  Soulas " 

"Oh!  the  never  of  a  girl  of  nineteen!"  retorted  her 
mother,  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"  The  never  of  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville,"  said  Rosalie 
with  firm  decision.  "  My  father,  I  imagine,  has  no  intention 
of  making  me  marry  against  my  wishes?  " 

**  No,  indeed  no  !  "  said  the  poor  Baron,  looking  affection- 
ately at  his  daughter. 

"Very  well!"  said  the  Baroness,  sternly  controlling  the 
rage  of  a  bigot  startled  at  finding  herself  unexpectedly  defied, 
"  you  yourself,  Monsieur  de  Watteville,  may  take  the  respon- 
sibility of  settling  your  daughter.  Consider  well,  Made- 
moiselle, for  if  you  do  not  marry  to  my  mind  you  will  get 
nothing  out  of  me  !  " 

The  quarrel  thus  begun  between  Madame  de  Watteville 
and  her  husband,  who  took  his  daughter's  part,  went  so  far 
that  Rosalie  and  her  father  were  obliged  to  spend  the  summer 
at  Les  Rouxey  ;  life  at  the  Hotel  de  Rupt  was  unendurable. 
It  thus  became  known  in  Besan^on  that  Mademoiselle  de 
Watteville  had  positively  refused  the  Comte  de  Soulas. 

After  their  marriage  Mariette  and  Jerome  came  to  Les 
Rouxey  to  succeed  Modinier  in  due  time.  The  Baron  re- 
stored and  repaired  the  house  to  suit  his  daughter's  taste. 
When  she  heard  that  these  improvements  had  cost  about  sixty 
thousand  francs,  and  that  Rosalie  and  her  father  were  build- 
ing a  conservatory,  the  Baroness  understood  that  there  was  a 
leaven  of  spite  in  her  daughter.  The  Baron  purchased  vari- 
ous outlying  plots,  and  a  little  estate  worth  thirty  thousand 
francs.     Madame  de  Watteville  was  told  that,  away  from  her, 


398  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

Rosalie  showed  masterly  qualities,  that  she  was  taking  steps  to 
improve  the  value  of  Les  Rouxey,  that  she  had  treated  herself 
to  a  riding-habit  and  rode  about ;  her  father,  whom  she  made 
very  happy,  who  no  longer  complained  of  his  health,  and  who 
was  growing  fat,  accompanied  her  in  her  expeditions.  As  the 
Baroness'  name-day  drew  near — her  name  was  Louise — the 
vicar-general  came  one  day  to  Les  Rouxey,  deputed,  no  doubt, 
by  Madame  de  Watteville  and  Monsieur  de  Soulas,  to  nego- 
tiate a  peace  between  the  mother  and  daughter. 

"That  little  Rosalie  has  a  head  on  her  shoulders,"  said  the 
folk  of  Besan^on. 

After  handsomely  paying  up  the  ninety  thousand  francs 
spent  on  Les  Rouxey,  the  Baroness  allowed  her  husband  a  thou- 
sand francs  a  month  to  live  on  ;  she  would  not  put  herself  in 
the  wrong.  The  father  and  daughter  were  perfectly  willing 
to  return  to  Besan^on  for  the  15th  of  August,  and  to  remain 
there  till  the  end  of  the  month. 

When,  after  dinner,  the  vicar-general  took  Mademoiselle  de 
Watteville  apart,  to  open  the  question  of  the  marriage,  by 
explaining  to  her  that  it  was  vain  to  think  any  more  of 
Albert,  of  whom  they  had  had  no  news  for  a  year  past,  he 
was  stopped  at  once  by  a  sign  from  Rosalie.  The  strange  girl 
took  Monsieur  de  Grancey  by  the  arm,  and  led  him  to  a  seat 
under  a  clump  of  rhododendrons,  whence  there  was  a  view  of 
the  lake. 

"Listen,  dear  abbe,"  said  she.  "You  whom  I  love  as 
much  as  my  father,  for  you  had  an  affection  for  my  Albert,  I 
must  at  last  confess  that  I  committed  crimes  to  become  his 
wife,  and  he  must  be  my  husband.     Here  ;  read  this." 

She  held  out  to  him  a  number  of  the  Gazette  which  she  had 
in  her  apron  pocket,  pointing  out  the  following  paragraph 
under  the  date  of  Florence,  May  25th : 

"  The  wedding  of  Monsieur  le  Due  de  Rh6tor6,  eldest  son 
of  the  Due  de  Chaulieu,  the  former  ambassador,  to  Madame  la 
Duchesse  d'Argaiolo,  nee  Princess  Soderini,  was  solemnized 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  399 

with  great  splendor.  Numerous  entertainments  given  in 
honor  of  the  marriage  are  making  Florence  gay.  The 
Duchess'  fortune  is  one  of  the  finest  in  Italy,  for  the  late 
Duke  left  her  everything." 

"  The  woman  he  loved  is  married,"  said  she.  "I  divided 
them." 

"  You  ?     How  ? ' '  asked  the  abbe. 

Rosalie  was  about  to  reply,  when  she  was  interrupted  by  a 
loud  cry  from  two  of  the  gardeners,  following  on  the  sound 
of  a  body  falling  into  the  water ;  she  started,  and  ran  off 
screaming,  "  Oh  !  father  !  "     The  Baron  had  disappeared. 

In  trying  to  reach  a  piece  of  granite  on  which  he  fancied 
he  saw  the  impression  of  a  shell,  a  circumstance  which  would 
have  contradicted  some  system  of  geology,  Monsieur  de 
Watteville  had  gone  down  the  slope,  lost  his  balance,  and 
slipped  into  the  lake,  which,  of  course,  was  deepest  close 
under  the  roadway.  The  men  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in 
enabling  the  Baron  to  catch  hold  of  a  pole  pushed  down  at 
the  place  where  the  water  was  bubbling,  but  at  last  they 
pulled  him  out,  covered  with  mud,  in  which  he  had  sunk ;  he 
was  getting  deeper  and  deeper  in,  by  dint  of  struggling.  Mon- 
sieur de  Watteville  had  dined  heavily,  digestion  was  in  pro- 
gress, and  was  thus  checked. 

When  he  had  been  undressed,  washed,  and  put  to  bed,  he 
was  in  such  evident  danger  that  two  servants  at  once  set  out 
on  horseback  :  one  to  ride  to  Besan^on,  and  the  other  to  fetch 
the  nearest  doctor  and  surgeon.  When  Madame  de  Watte- 
ville arrived,  eight  hours  later,  with  the  first  medical  aid  from 
Besan^on,  they  found  Monsieur  de  Watteville  past  all  hope,  in 
spite  of  the  intelligent  treatment  of  the  Rouxey  doctor.  The 
fright  had  produced  serious  effusion  on  the  brain,  and  the 
shock  to  the  digestion  was  helping  to  kill  the  poor  man. 

This  death,  which  would  never  have  happened,  said  Madame 
de  Watteville,  if  her  husband  had  stayed  at  Besangon,  was 
ascribed  by  her  to  her  daughter's  obstinacy.     She  took  an 


400  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

aversion  for  Rosalie,  abandoning  herself  to  grief  and  regrets 
that  were  evidently  exaggerated.  She  spoke  of  the  Baron  as 
"her  dear  lamb  !  " 

The  last  of  the  Wattevilles  was  buried  on  an  island  in  the 
lake  at  Les  Rouxey,  where  the  Baroness  had  a  little  Gothic 
monument  erected  of  white  marble,  like  that  called  the  tomb 
of  Heloise  at  Pere-Lachaise, 

A  month  after  this  catastrophe  the  mother  and  daughter  had 
settled  in  the  Hotel  de  Rupt,  where  they  lived  in  savage  silence. 
Rosalie  was  suffering  from  real  sorrow,  which  had  no  visible 
outlet ;  she  accused  herself  of  her  father's  death,  and  she 
feared  another  disaster,  much  greater  in  her  eyes,  and  very 
certainly  her  own  work  ;  neither  Girardet  the  attorney  nor 
the  Abbe  de  Grancey  could  obtain  any  information  con- 
cerning Albert.  This  silence  was  appalling.  In  a  paroxysm 
of  repentance  she  felt  that  she  must  confess  to  the  vicar-general 
the  horrible  machinations  by  which  she  had  separated  Fran- 
cesca  and  Albert.  They  had  been  simple,  but  formidable. 
Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  had  intercepted  Albert's  letters  to 
the  Duchess  as  well  as  that  in  which  Francesca  announced 
her  husband's  illness,  warning  her  lover  that  she  could  write 
to  him  no  more  during  the  time  while  she  was  devoted,  as  was 
her  duty,  to  the  care  of  the  dying  man.  Thus,  while  Albert 
was  wholly  occupied  with  election  matters,  the  Duchess  had 
written  him  only  two  letters;  one  in  which  she  told  him  that 
the  Due  d'Argaiolo  was  in  danger,  and  one  announcing  her 
widowhood — two  noble  and  beautiful  letters,  which  Rosalie 
kept  back. 

After  several  nights'  labor  she  succeeded  in  imitating 
Albert's  writing  very  perfectly.  She  had  substituted  three 
letters  of  her  own  writing  for  three  of  Albert's,  and  the  rough 
copies  which  she  showed  to  the  old  priest  made  him  shudder 
— the  genius  of  evil  was  revealed  in  them  to  such  perfection. 
Rosalie,  writing  in  Albert's  name,  had  prepared  the  Duchess 
for  a  change  in  the  Frenchman's  feelings,  falsely  representing 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  401 

him  as  faithless,  and  she  had  answered  the  news  of  the  Due 
d'Argaiolo's  death  by  announcing  the  marriage  ere  long  of 
Albert  and  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville.  The  two  letters, 
intended  to  cross  on  the  road,  had,  in  fact,  done  so.  The 
infernal  cleverness  with  which  the  letters  were  written  so  much 
astonished  the  vicar-general  that  he  read  them  a  second  time. 
Francesca,  stabbed  to  the  heart  by  a  girl  who  wanted  to  kill 
love  in  her  rival,  had  answered  the  last  in  these  four  words: 
"You  are  free.     Farewell." 

"  Purely  moral  crimes,  which  give  no  hold  to  human  justice, 
are  the  most  atrocious  and  detestable,"  said  the  abbe  severely. 
**  God  often  punishes  them  on  earth  ;  herein  lies  the  reason 
of  the  terrible  catastrophes  which  to  us  seem  inexplicable.  Of 
all  secret  crimes  buried  in  the  mystery  of  private  life,  the  most 
disgraceful  is  that  of  breaking  the  seal  of  a  letter,  or  of  reading 
it  surreptitiously.  Every  one,  whoever  it  may  be,  and  urged 
by  whatever  reason,  who  is  guilty  of  such  an  act  has  stained 
his  honor  beyond  retrieving. 

"  Do  you  not  feel  all  that  is  touching,  that  is  heavenly  in 
the  story  of  the  youthful  page,  falsely  accused,  and  carrying 
the  letter  containing  the  order  for  his  execution,  who  sets  out 
without  a  thought  of  ill,  and  whom  Providence  protects  and 
saves — miraculously,  we  say  !  But  do  you  know  wherein  the 
miracle  lies  ?  Virtue  has  a  glory  as  potent  as  that  of  innocent 
childhood. 

"  I  say  these  things  not  meaning  to  admonish  you,"  said 
the  old  priest,  with  deep  grief  "  I,  alas  !  am  not  your  spirit- 
ual  director  ;  you  are  not  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  God  ;  I  am 
your  friend,  appalled  by  dread  of  what  your  punishment  may 
be.  What  has  become  of  that  unhappy  Albert?  Has  he, 
perhaps,  killed  himself?  There  was  tremendous  passion 
under  his  assumption  of  calm.  I  understand  now  that  old 
Prince  Soderini,  the  father  of  the  Duchess  d'Argaiolo,  came 
here  to  take  back  his  daughter's  letters  and  portraits.  This 
was  the  thunderbolt  that  fell  on  Albert's  head,  and  he  went 


402  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

off,  no  doubt,  to  try  to  justify  himself.     But  how  is  it  that  in 
fourteen  months  he  has  given  us  no  news  of  himself?  " 
"  Oh  !  if  I  marry  him,  he  will  be  so  happy  !  " 

"Happy?  He  does  not  love  you.  Besides,  you  have  no 
great  fortune  to  give  him.  Your  mother  detests  you  ;  you 
made  her  a  fierce  reply  which  rankles,  and  which  will  be 
your  ruin.  When  she  told  you  yesterday  that  obedience  was 
the  only  way  to  repair  your  errors,  and  reminded  you  of  the 
need  for  marrying,  mentioning  Am6d6e — '  If  you  are  so  fond 
of  him,  marry  him  yourself,  mother !  ' — Did  you,  or  did  you 
not,  fling  these  words  in  her  teeth? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Rosalie. 

**  Well,  I  know  her,"  Monsieur  de  Grancey  went  on.  "  In 
a  few  months  she  will  be  Comtesse  de  Soulas  !  She  will  be 
sure  to  have  children ;  she  will  give  Monsieur  de  Soulas  forty 
thousand  francs  a  year ;  she  will  benefit  him  in  other  ways, 
and  reduce  your  share  of  her  fortune  as  much  as  possible. 
You  will  be  poor  as  long  as  she  lives,  and  she  is  but  eight-and- 
thirty  !  Your  whole  estate  will  be  the  land  of  Les  Rouxey, 
and  the  small  share  left  to  you  after  your  father's  legal  debts 
are  settled,  if  indeed,  your  mother  should  consent  to  forego 
her  claims  on  Les  Rouxey.  From  the  point  of  view  of  mate- 
rial advantages,  you  have  done  badly  for  yourself;  from  the 
point  of  view  of  feeling,  I  imagine  you  have  wrecked  your 

life.     Instead  of  going  to  your  mother "     Rosalie  shook 

her  head  fiercely. 

"To  your  mother,"  the  priest  went  on,  "and  to  religion, 
where  you  would,  at  the  first  impulse  of  your  heart,  have 
found  enlightenment,  counsel  and  guidance,  you  chose  to  act 
in  your  own  way,  knowing  nothing  of  life,  and  listening  only 
to  passion  !  ' ' 

These  words  of  wisdom  terrified  Mademoiselle  de  Watte- 
ville. 

"And  what  ought  I  to  do  now?"  she  asked  after  a  brief 
pause. 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  403 

"  To  repair  your  wrongdoing,  you  must  ascertain  its  ex- 
tent," said  the  abbe. 

"  Well,  I  will  write  to  the  only  man  who  can  know  any- 
thing of  Albert's  fate,  Monsieur  Leopold  Hannequin,  a  notary 
in  Paris,  his  friend  from  childhood." 

"  Write  no  more,  unless  to  do  honor  to  truth,"  said  the 
vicar-general.  "  Place  the  real  and  the  false  letters  in  my 
hands,  confess  everything  in  detail  as  though  I  were  the  keeper 
of  your  conscience,  asking  me  how  you  may  expiate  your  sins, 
and  doing  as  I  bid  you.  I  shall  see — for,  above  all  things, 
restore  this  unfortunate  man  to  his  innocence  in  the  eyes  of  the 
woman  he  had  made  his  divinity  on  earth.  Though  he  has 
lost  his  happiness,  Albert  must  still  hope  for  justification." 

Rosalie  promised  to  obey  the  abb6,  hoping  that  the  steps 
he  might  take  would  perhaps  end  in  bringing  Albert  back  to 
her. 

Not  long  after  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville's  confession  a 
clerk  came  to  Besan^on  from  Monsieur  Leopold  Hannequin, 
armed  with  a  power  of  attorney  from  Albert ;  he  called  first 
on  Monsieur  Girardet,  begging  his  assistance  in  selling  the 
house  belonging  to  Monsieur  Savaron.  The  attorney  under- 
took to  do  this  out  of  friendship  for  Albert.  The  clerk  from 
Paris  sold  the  furniture,  and  with  the  proceeds  could  repay 
some  money  owed  by  Savaron  to  Girardet,  who,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  inexplicable  departure,  had  lent  him  five  thousand 
francs  while  undertaking  to  collect  his  assets.  When  Girardet 
asked  what  had  become  of  the  handsome  and  noble  pleader, 
to  whom  he  "had  been  much  attached,  the  clerk  replied  that 
no  one  knew  but  his  master,  and  that  the  notary  had  seemed 
greatly  distressed  by  the  contents  of  the  last  letter  he  had 
received  from  Monsieur  Albert  de  Savaron. 

On  hearing  this,  the  vicar-general  wrote  to  Leopold.  This 
was  the  worthy  notary's  reply : 


404  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

"To   Monsieur   I'Abbe   de    Grancey,  Vicar-General  of  the 
Diocese  of  Besangon. 

"Paris. 

"Alas,  monsieur,  it  is  in  nobody's  power  to  restore  Albert 
to  the  life  of  the  world;  he  has  renounced  it.  He  is  a  novice 
in  the  monastery  of  the  Grande  Chartreuse  near  Grenoble. 
You  know,  better  than  I  who  have  but  just  learned  it,  that  on 
the  threshold  of  that  cloister  everything  dies.  Albert,  foresee- 
ing that  I  should  go  to  him,  placed  the  general  of  the  order  be- 
tween my  utmost  efforts  and  himself.  I  know  his  noble  soul 
well  enough  to  be  sure  that  he  is  the  victim  of  some  odious 
plot  unknown  to  us  ;  but  everything  is  at  an  end.  The  Duch- 
esse  d'Argaiolo,  now  Duchesse  de  Rhetore,  seems  to  me  to 
have  carried  severity  to  an  extreme.  At  Belgirate,  which  she 
had  left  when  Albert  flew  thither,  she  had  left  instructions 
leading  him  to  believe  that  she  was  living  in  London.  From 
London  Albert  went  in  search  of  her  to  Naples,  and  from 
Naples  to  Rome,  where  she  was  now  engaged  to  the  Due  de 
Rhetore.  When  Albert  succeeded  in  seeing  Madame  d'Ar- 
gaiolo, at  Florence,  it  was  at  the  ceremony  of  her  marriage. 

"  Our  poor  friend  swooned  in  church,  and  even  when  he  was 
in  danger  of  death  he  could  never  obtain  any  explanation  from 
this  woman,  who  must  have  had  I  know  not  what  in  her 
heart.  For  seven  months  Albert  had  traveled  in  pursuit  of  a 
cruel  creature  who  thought  it  sport  to  escape  him  ;  he  knew 
not  where  or  how  to  catch  her. 

"  I  saw  him  on  his  way  through  Paris  ;  and  if  you  had  seen 
him,  as  I  did,  you  would  have  felt  that  not  a  word  might  be 
spoken  about  the  Duchess,  at  the  risk  of  bringing  on  an  attack 
which  might  have  wrecked  his  reason.  If  he  had  known  what 
his  crime  was,  he  might  have  found  means  to  justify  himself; 
but  being  falsely  accused  of  being  married  ! — what  could  he 
do?  Albert  is  dead,  quite  dead  to  the  world.  He  longed  for 
rest ;  let  us  hope  that  the  deep  silence  and  prayer  into  which 
he  has  thrown  himself  may  give  him  happiness  in  another 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  405 

guise.     You,  monsieur,  who  have  known  him,  must  greatly 
pity  him  ;  and  pity  his  friends  also. 

**  Yours,  etc." 

As  soon  as  he  received  this  letter  the  good  vicar-general 
wrote  to  the  general  of  the  Carthusian  order,  and  this  was  the 
letter  he  received  from  Albert  Savaron  : 

"Brother  Albert   to    Monsieur    I'Abbe  de  Grancey,  Vicar- 
General  of  the  Diocese  of  Besan^on. 

"  La  Grande  Chartreuse. 
"  I  recognized  your  tender  soul,  dear  and  well-beloved 
vicar-general,  and  your  still  youthful  heart,  in  all  that  the 
reverend  father  general  of  our  order  has  just  told  me.  You 
have  understood  the  only  wish  that  lurks  in  the  depths  of  ray 
heart  so  far  as  the  things  of  the  world  are  concerned — to  get 
justice  done  to  my  feelings  by  her  who  has  treated  me  so 
badly  !  But  before  leaving  me  at  liberty  to  avail  myself  of 
your  offer,  the  general  wanted  to  know  that  my  vocation  was 
sincere  ;  he  was  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  his  idea,  on  finding  that 
I  was  determined  to  preserve  absolute  silence  on  this  point. 
If  I  had  yielded  to  the  temptation  to  rehabilitate  the  man 
of  the  world,  the  friar  would  have  been  rejected  by  this  monas- 
tery. Grace  has  certainly  done  her  work  ;  but,  though  short, 
the  struggle  was  not  the  less  keen  or  the  less  painful.  Is  not 
this  enough  to  show  you  that  I  could  never  return  to  the 
world. 

"  Hence  my  forgiveness,  which  you  ask  for  the  author  of  so 
much  woe,  is  entire  and  without  a  thought  of  vindictiveness. 
I  will  pray  to  God  to  forgive  that  young  lady  as  I  forgive  her, 
and  as  I  shall  beseech  Him  to  give  Madame  de  Rhetore  a  life 
of  happiness.  Ah  !  whether  it  be  death,  or  the  obstinate 
hand  of  a  young  girl  madly  bent  on  being  loved,  or  one  of  the 
blows  ascribed  to  chance,  must  we  not  all  obey  God  ?  Sorrow 
in  some  souls  makes  a  vast  void  through  which  the  Divine 
voice  rings.     I  learned  too  late  the  bearings  of  this  life  on 


406  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

that  which  awaits  us  ;  all  in  me  is  worn  out ;  I  could  not  serve 
in  the  ranks  of  the  church  militant,  and  I  lay  the  remains  of 
an  almost  extinct  life  at  the  foot  of  the  altar. 

"This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  write.  You  alone,  who 
loved  me,  and  whom  I  loved  so  well,  could  make  me  break 
the  law  of  oblivion  I  imposed  on  myself  when  I  entered  these 
headquarters  of  Saint  Bruno,  but  you  are  always  especially 
named  in  the  prayers  of 

"  Brother  Albert. 

"  November,  1836." 

"Everything  is  for  the  best,  perhaps,"  thought  the  Abb6 
de  Grancey. 

When  he  showed  this  letter  to  Rosalie,  who  with  a  pious 
impulse  kissed  the  lines  which  contained  her  forgiveness,  he 
said  to  her — 

"Well,  now  that  he  is  lost  to  you,  will  you  not  be  recon- 
ciled to  your  mother  and  marry  the  Comte  de  Soulas?  " 

"Only  if  Albert  should  order  it,"  said  she. 

"  But  you  see  it  is  impossible  to  consult  him.  The  general 
of  the  order  would  not  allow  it." 

"  If  I  were  to  go  to  see  him  ?  " 

' '  No  Carthusian  sees  any  visitor.  Besides,  no  woman  but 
the  Queen  of  France  may  enter  a  Carthusian  monastery,"  said 
the  abbe.  "  So  you  have  no  longer  any  excuse  for  not  marry- 
ing young  Monsieur  de  Soulas." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  destroy  my  mother's  happiness,"  retorted 
Rosalie. 

"  Satan  !  "  exclaimed  the  vicar-general. 

Towards  the  end  of  that  winter  the  worthy  Abbe  de  Grancey 
died.  This  good  friend  no  longer  stood  between  Madame 
de  Watteville  and  her  daughter,  to  soften  the  impact  of  those 
two  iron  wills. 

The  event  he  had  foretold  took  place.  In  the  month  of 
August,  1837,  Madame  de  Watteville  was  married  to  Monsieur 
de  Soulas  in  Paris,  whither  she  went  by  Rosalie's  advice,  the 


ALBERT  S AVAR  ON.  407 

girl  making  a  show  of  kindness  and  sweetness  to  her  mother. 
Madame  de  Watteville  believed  in  this  affection  on  the  part 
of  her  daughter,  who  simply  desired  to  go  to  Paris  to  give 
herself  the  luxury  of  a  bitter  revenge  ',  she  thought  of  nothing 
but  avenging  Savaron  by  torturing  her  rival. 

Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  had  been  declared  legally  of 
age ;  she  was,  in  fact,  not  far  from  one-and-twenty.  Her 
mother,  to  settle  with  her  finally,  had  resigned  her  claims  on 
Les  Rouxey,  and  the  daughter  had  signed  a  release  for  all  the 
inheritance  of  the  Baron  de  Watteville.  Rosalie  encouraged 
her  mother  to  marry  the  Comte  de  Soulas  and  settle  all  her 
own  fortune  on  him. 

"  Let  us  each  be  perfectly  free,"  she  said. 

Madame  de  Soulas,  who  had  been  uneasy  as  to  her  daugh- 
ter's intentions,  was  touched  by  this  liberality,  and  made  her 
a  present  of  six  thousand  francs  a  year  in  the  funds  as  con- 
science money.  As  the  Comtesse  de  Soulas  had  an  income 
of  forty-eight  thousand  francs  from  her  own  lands,  and  was 
quite  incapable  of  alienating  them  in  order  to  diminish 
Rosalie's  share.  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  was  still  a  fortune 
to  marry,  of  eighteen  hundred  thousand  francs  ;  Les  Rouxey, 
with  the  Baron's  additions,  and  certain  improvements,  might 
yield  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year,  besides  the  value  of  the 
house,  rents,  and  preserves.  So  Rosalie  and  her  mother,  who 
soon  adopted  the  Paris  style  and  fashions,  easily  obtained 
introductions  to  the  best  society.  The  golden  key — eighteen 
hundred  thousand  francs — embroidered  on  Mademoiselle  de 
Watteville's  stomacher,  did  more  for  the  Comtesse  de  Soulas 
than  her  pretentions  a  la  de  Rupt,  her  inappropriate  pride,  or 
even  her  rather  distant  great  connections. 

In  the  month  of  February,  1838,  Rosalie,  who  was  eagerly 
courted  by  many  young  men,  achieved  the  purpose  which  had 
brought  her  to  Paris.  This  was  to  meet  the  Duchesse  de 
Rh6tore,  to  see  this  wonderful  woman,  and  to  overwhelm  her 
with  perennial  remorse.     Rosalie  gave  herself  up  to  the  most 


408  ALBERT  SAVARON. 

bewildering  elegance  and  vanities  in  order  to  face  the  Duchess 
on  an  equal  footing. 

They  first  met  at  a  ball  given  annually  after  1830  for  the 
benefit  of  the  pensioners  on  the  old  Civil  List.  A  young 
man,  prompted  by  Rosalie,  pointed  her  out  to  the  Duchess, 
saying — 

**  There  is  a  very  remarkable  young  person,  a  strong-minded 
young  lady  too  !  She  drove  a  clever  man  into  a  monastery 
— the  Grande  Chartreuse — a  man  of  immense  capabilities, 
Albert  de  Savaron,  whose  career  she  wrecked.  She  is  Made- 
moiselle de  Watteville,  the  famous  Besangon  heiress " 

The  Duchess  turned  pale.  Rosalie's  eyes  met  hers  with 
one  of  those  flashes  which,  between  woman  and  woman,  are 
more  fatal  than  the  pistol-shots  of  a  duel.  Francesca  Soderini, 
who  had  suspected  that  Albert  might  be  innocent,  hastily 
quitted  the  ball-room,  leaving  the  speaker  at  his  wits'  end  to 
guess  what  terrible  blow  he  had  inflicted  on  the  beautiful 
Duchesse  de  Rhetore. 

"If  you  want  to  hear  more  about  Albert,  come  to  the 
opera  ball  on  Tuesday  with  a  marigold  in  your  hand." 

This  anonymous  note,  sent  by  Rosalie  to  the  Duchess, 
brought  the  unhappy  Italian  to  the  ball,  where  Mademoiselle 
de  Watteville  placed  in  her  hand  all  Albert's  letters,  with  that 
written  to  Leopold  Hannequin  by  the  vicar-general,  and  the 
notary's  reply,  and  even  that  in  which  she  had  written  her 
own  confession  to  the  Abb6  de  Grancey. 

*'  I  do  not  choose  to  be  the  only  sufferer,"  she  said  to  her 
rival,  "  for  one  has  been  as  ruthless  as  the  other." 

After  enjoying  the  dismay  stamped  on  the  Duchess'  beau- 
tiful face,  Rosalie  went  away ;  she  went  out  no  more,  and 
returned  to  Besan^on  with  her  mother. 

Mademoiselle  de  Watteville,  who  lived  alone  on  her  estate 
of  Les  Rouxey,  riding,  hunting,  refusing  two  or  three  offers  a 


ALBERT  SAVARON.  409 

year,  going  to  Besangon  four  or  five  times  in  the  course  of 
the  winter,  and  busying  herself  with  improving  her  land,  was 
regarded  as  a  very  eccentric  personage.  She,  was  one  of  the 
celebrities  of  the  Eastern  provinces. 

Madame  de  Soulas  has  two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  and 
she  has  grown  younger  \  but  young  Monsieur  de  Soulas  has 
aged  a  good  deal. 

"  My  fortune  has  cost  me  dear,"  said  he  to  young  Chavon- 
court.  "  Really  to  know  a  bigot  it  is  unfortunately  necessary 
to  marry  her  !  " 

Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  behaves  in  the  most  extra- 
ordinary manner.  "She  has  vagaries,"  people  say.  Every 
year  she  goes  to  gaze  at  the  walls  of  the  Grande  Chartreuse. 
Perhaps  she  dreams  of  imitating  her  grand-uncle  by  forcing 
the  walls  of  the  monastery  to  find  a  husband,  as  Watteville 
broke  through  those  of  his  monastery  to  recover  his  liberty. 

She  left  Besan^on  in  1841,  intending,  it  was  said,  to  get 
married ;  but  the  real  reason  of  this  expedition  is  still  un- 
known, for  she  returned  home  in  a  state  which  forbids  her 
ever  appearing  in  society  again.  By  one  of  those  chances  of 
which  the  Abbe  de  Grancey  had  spoken,  she  happened  to  be 
on  the  Loire  in  a  steamboat  of  which  the  boiler  burst. 
Mademoiselle  de  Watteville  was  so  severely  injured  that  she 
lost  her  right  arm  and  her  left  leg ;  her  face  is  marked  with 
fearful  scars,  which  have  bereft  her  of  her  beauty  ;  her  health, 
cruelly  upset,  leaves  her  few  days  free  from  suffering.  In 
short,  she  now  never  leaves  the  Chartreuse  of  Les  Rouxey, 
where  she  leads  a  life  wholly  devoted  to  religious  practices. 

Paris,  May,  1842. 


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